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by GeekMom
Summary: What would you do if you went to sleep knowing your family, your fiancée, your life and yourself, but woke to strangers? When you strip away everything that you know, what is left? A Season 7 A/U set several weeks after Driven. As always, Andrew Marlowe's characters are unforgettable. A 2016 Castle Summer Hiatus Ficathon story.
1. Bereft

_**Author's note below. Thanks for reading!**_

 _ **Enjoy!**_

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 **Chapter 1**

 **Bereft**

Some mornings he remembers that he's forgotten: he knows who he is and that the eight weeks are all that are missing.

Some mornings he panics because he doesn't recognize the bedroom. Some mornings he wanders alone through a stranger's apartment gathering clues until it all comes back like the tide. The waves of who he is, what he's accomplished, and who he loves crash over him, assaulting him on the blank beach of his life, making him drop to his knees, tossed by the voluminous intensity. The tiny bits of detritus in the form of pictures, mementoes and déjà vu like familiarity roll, cut and scrape in the breakers, pelting him in an onslaught of memories.

Other mornings, like this morning, he pretends he knows: an interloper in a household of women who obviously know him and love him. He pretends to love them back as well as he can. He's too polite not to pretend that he doesn't recognize their life. He's too afraid that they will find out that he doesn't belong there. So he pretends.

* * *

"Richard?" That's the older woman. He turned his vacant gaze from the protection of endlessly contemplating the architecture of the building on the opposite side of the street and other more pressing concerns to her anxious eyes. He swiveled the rest of his body on the sleek ebony of the piano bench to look at her squarely. The vivacious woman interests him: her love of life is plainly written on her face, in her language, and her jewelry and wardrobe choices. Some of those are genuine intimations and some a façade, like white out over a written mistake or two or a hundred. He sees the regret and mistakes, acknowledged but somehow not embraced: pushed aside in favor of the present. He also sees an abundance of love; it's practically seeping from her eyes but guardedly held back. He's noticed that she doles it out sparingly as if she's trying not to overwhelm or let too much be known like she's got a winning poker hand, held close to her vest. What does come is cushioned like a hot dog in a bun of sarcasm or wit. He doesn't know her, but he knows she's holding back. Maybe they play poker together.

"Are you sure you're feeling all right, Richard?" she breezily asked, but he caught the flash of concern on her features when he stumbled out of the bedroom that morning, unable to hide his surprise when he found her in the great room.

He blinks: once, twice. _'Richard…Richard—it should sound familiar, but it doesn't, not applied to him anyway.'_ It hasn't since she greeted him earlier that morning, drinking some olive-drab colored, lumpy and thick, repulsive concoction. The name is not familiar no matter how hard he's tried to force it to be. It doesn't matter how many times she uses it or the inflection or emphasis. It's not as if he hasn't ever heard the name: she's been using it for the past few hours. He simply could not claim the moniker as his own. He wonders if he has always gone by his full name: Richard or has he ever been Rich or Rick or, God forbid, Dick.

He gulped and nodded. "Just tired still, I guess…uh…Mom?" he ended awkwardly.

If she heard the question in his voice, she seemed to ignore it, but she whipped her head back around toward him: for a second there was a look of utter alarm on her face, replaced swiftly with controlled calm. Maybe he guessed wrong; maybe she wasn't his mother.

She covered the distance between them in world-record time, reached for his forehead and shook her head. "No fever." She stretched her head back to assess his countenance again. "How's your head?" she asked in a dry, droll tone. "Did you have a little too much to drink last night?" She almost sounded hopeful.

If he's honest, he doesn't know. Maybe this has all been a result of being blackout drunk. Does he drink? Does he drink that heavily? He doesn't feel like he has a hangover or maybe he doesn't remember what a hangover feels like. He imagines it would be worse or better than he is feeling. Maybe not better, but… numb, deadened to the confusion and lost feeling. It would be better.

"Um…noth…" he stopped, cutting himself off: he has no idea, so he fudged it. "Not much. Just distracted, I guess."

"Ah, yes. Well don't worry, Sweetheart; Katherine will only be gone for a couple of days, so stop pouting. I will get out of your hair and you two can get back to whatever it is that you two do. Maybe that will bring the smile back to your face." The worried look passed over her features faster than a cold front would in a Kansas tornado season: it was just as dark, just as portentous.

"Maybe," he agreed even though he doesn't know who Katherine is, whatever it is that they do or why she would be leaving them to do it. He could feel the panic rising: a tightness clenching his chest and throat fast on the heels of a wave of chills. He gripped the edge of the piano bench.

The fleeting, teasing smile dropped from the red head's face, distress and concern refilled the gaps. She studied him for a lifetime in a moment, in which he fidgeted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. He tried not to flinch: really he tried. The red-head, who was proving to be a pretty good actress, didn't react…much. "Maybe you should go back to bed, Kiddo," she sighed to his forehead. "I think maybe that you're coming down with something." She squeezed his shoulder.

The door slammed and both their heads jerked across the spectacular apartment, which he thought might truly belong to the older red head, toward the door. Another red head rushed toward them. This one was younger, a teen, maybe or young woman. Her excitement pushed before her in a wave of electricity. He inhaled sharply and backed away slightly. The older woman, his mother or maybe her mother, noticed.

"Dad, Dad, Dad: I did it! I got in and it's all because of you!" She shouted happily as she skipped across the room, caught in a hug by the older red head.

He melted and swallowed: he was a father. "That's great," he said in a tone that he hoped reflected the girl's father's normal enthusiasm, and although he searched, painfully reached into the recesses of his mind, groping for some little anything in the darkness, he had no idea to what she was referring.

"Uh, Alexis," interrupted his mother, he safely could assume her role now.

The girl continued, either ignoring or not hearing her grandmother. "Great? It's everything," she sang, happily as she twirled around the piano. "Thank you so much, Daddy!" Before the older woman could once again try to intervene, the girl threw her arms around his neck and for a second, he stiffened, but then relaxed and hugged the teen somewhat cumbersomely. The girl pulled back and looked at him, assessing. "Are you okay?"

He managed what he hoped was a normal smile. "Fine, I'm fine."

"Are you in pain?" Her concern colored everything around her, like a sudden cloud cover on an otherwise sunny day.

The other red head watched the exchange, intently. "Alexis…"

"No…why…why do you ask?"

The teen sat next to him on the piano bench, playfully sliding over the polished surface and jamming her thighs next to his. It was all he could do not to push away; to put distance between him and this affectionate stranger.

"Dad, what happened? Did you do something stupid at work yesterday?"

His mother lifted her hand to her mouth and grunted.

 _'Work…work?'_ The questions assaulted his mind, unbidden. _'What did he do every day? Where did he go? Where would he go, were he to leave? Was he supposed to be someplace now? How did he afford this apartment? Maybe it was the older red head's after all. Maybe he was a grown man living with his mother.'_ He scowled, staring at his manicured cuticles and tried to figure out how to ask a question, the answer of which he should already know.

Said older red head had turned away before he mustered the courage. "Good morning, Darling," she sang. She spread her arms, welcoming whoever was on the other side, effectively hiding him and the teen behind a flamboyant caftan blind, like they were odd hunters lying in wait for some demented psychedelic duck. "Did you sleep well?"

"Morning Martha." The new voice paused. He heard a sigh. "Uh, yeah, I did, you? And have you seen Rick this morning? He tossed and turned all night again."

Martha, arched a knowing eyebrow, shook her head as she laid a hand on the woman's sleeve. After a pause she sashayed to the side, revealing him and his daughter still sitting gawkily next to each other on the piano bench. Maybe they were the ducks.

The woman was breathtaking, even with bed head, dressed in an oversized tee shirt and threadbare leggings that had seen better days. Next to her, he was definitely the duck. He'd seen her on the opposite side of the bed when he awoke earlier and beat a hasty retreat, not recognizing her. He hoped then that he wasn't the type of man to bed random women. He thought about leaving the apartment, but he didn't know where he was let alone where he would go.

"Oh hey, Babe," she asked warmly. "How are you feeling today? Hi Alexis," she greeted the teen cheerfully. "Sleepover over already?"

Alexis nodded and tilted her head toward her father.

The woman crossed to the kitchen and poured herself coffee before turning around and holding the carafe in the air. "Need a refill?"

"Um…sure," he mumbled as he grabbed his half-full coffee cup and escaped the too close, confines imposed by the teen.

He walked to the kitchen and held his mug out in front of him. The woman was even more beautiful the closer he got to her. He'd been too confused that morning to stay still and really look at her. He wished he had. He wished he remembered her: he ached for it. She turned from doctoring her own coffee to pour more into his.

"Black?" she questioned as she added to his cup. He looked into the cup and back to her, terrified he'd made an error. "Trying something different this morning?"

He nodded, hesitantly. "Yes?"

She smiled teasingly at him, but stopped suddenly, a look of concern replacing it. "Seriously, Rick: you look like hell." She glanced past him to the woman and teen by the piano. The three silently communicated and he knew they'd figured him out for the imposter or intruder he was. She sighed as she placed the carafe on the counter. She raised her hand to his forehead, caressing his jaw before finding her mark, but he ducked away, instantly aware that his evasion was the wrong response to this woman's concern.

He spun away and decided that full retreat was the best option. He was halfway through the office next to the bedroom where he'd awoken when the brunette caught up with him.

Kate wordlessly asked Martha and Alexis how bad it was before she followed him. They both shook their heads, silently.

"Hey, Castle," she said as she lightly grabbed his arm, stopping his flight. "Can you talk to me?"

He sighed and turned slowly toward her. "I…" he hesitated, blowing out a breath.

Kate's heart broke. She recognized the familiar stranger standing unsteadily in his office. Inhaling to fortify herself and silently sending up a prayer that he'd come back to her quickly, she whispered, "Babe, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?" she entreated, squeezing his arm.

After a moment of studying her, he blurted, "No, I don't. I don't know anything."

She felt the cold sweat on the small of her back. "Hm, what do you mean?" she asked tenderly, although she knew.

Gulping, he dropped his head and whispered his confession, "I don't know you. I don't know them," as he gestured to the other room. "I have no memory of who I am, where I am or anything." He fell into the armchair and held his head in his hands. She knelt in front of him and placed her hands on his thighs. "I woke up this morning and didn't recognize you, that bedroom, this apartment or them." He looked up into her face. "Who am I?"

* * *

It started happening about a month, give or take a few days, after he'd returned to her. Nightmares, terrors where he'd clamber from their bed and she'd find him huddled in a corner between the bathroom door and armoire, rambling about conspiracies and spies with absolute confusion and panic on his face and he'd shrink from her as if he didn't know her, as if he had reason to fear her.

They'd been to see Dr. Burke, many times. His theories surmised that whatever drug cocktail his abductors had used to inhibit his memories was failing. Or causing more memory loss: perhaps irreparable damage.

The most frustrating part for Kate was the inconsistency. She was never sure to whom she might wake up: her fiancé who had been abducted, losing two months of his life or a complete stranger, who knew nothing of their life together, his family or even himself. He usually came back to his memories and his life within hours. Once, though, it took two terribly frightening days when the clock's hands obstinately ticked at a sluggish pace while his eyes held no recognition, comprehension or the fathomless love that usually was present there.

That particular morning had caught her off guard. He'd been sleeping better and hadn't had an episode in weeks. Burke happily theorized that whatever undetectable drug his captors had used had finally worked its way out of his system. They'd celebrated and relaxed; finally she stopped listening for the other shoe to drop. But then Castle had been restless in bed the previous night, more so than she'd noticed recently, but she failed to connect the dots and now she sat in his office looking into the eyes of the man she loved who, for all intents and purposes, was a total stranger. He looked so lost; it broke her heart for him. He looked so closed off and it broke her heart for her.

Martha, Kate and Alexis were under strict orders from the doctor not to force memories onto him. To behave as normal even if they noticed he was having a bad episode, even if he tried, as he often did, to hide it from them. More times than not, he had come back on his own. It was painful to watch because not only would the memories inundate his brain, but he would also remember the not remembering of the people who he held closest and then they would see the guilt and panic followed by an aching sadness.

She heard the clack of his mother's heels crossing the great room. Martha noticed his state, of course, but being the actress she was, kept up the charade. She, along with Alexis and Kate had been through this together, forging a bond among the women.

"Katherine?" Martha called quietly from the doorway. She observed her son through unshed tears.

Kate sighed, still gripping Castle's legs. "Bad," was all she needed to say.

"Oh, I had hoped…" Martha began sadly. "What can I do?"

"Get his meds from the bathroom."

"You know I'm right here. I can hear you. I may not know who you are, but apparently my hearing is fine," Rick snapped. "You don't need to speak about me as if I'm not here."

"Sorry, Babe, sorry," Kate murmured as she pressed a kiss to her fingers and then pressed her fingertips to his jaw. Martha handed Kate the prescription bottle and retreated to the kitchen and her granddaughter. Alexis, although wise beyond her years, often needed comforting after recognizing the stranger in her dad.

Castle jerked his head back out of her reach. He retreated behind the armchair.

Beckett breathed, her own anxiety had no place when he deserved all her strength: in and out and in and out, completely aware of, but choosing to ignore, the makeshift wall between them. He'd insulated himself like that before; she learned not to take it personally, most times.

He gripped the back of the dark leather as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. "Look, you're lovely…and hot, but I don't know you…at least as well as you apparently know me. I'd appreciate if you'd stop calling me that and…the touching…please stop touching me…" He hesitated as he searched for the right word. "Intimately," he finished, a warning flashing in his eyes.

Nodding, she stood up, crossed her arms in front of her chest, protecting herself or maybe insulating herself as well. She inhaled and began, "Your name is Richard Castle. You are forty-three," she paused because he scowled. He always scowled upon learning his age. She supposed it was because he didn't look or most days feel his age. He didn't act his age either, but he wouldn't know that as well as she did or at all. She sucked in another cleansing breath for additional fortification. "You are a best-selling novelist." His eyes narrowed and Kate could see him mentally scribbling the clarification questions he had; the same ones he always had. His eyes tracked over the framed book covers adorning the walls and surfaces of the office. She continued his biography as he discovered the bookshelves, recognizing the name he'd just learned. "Your mother, Martha, is an actress and lives here in the city. You have a daughter, Alexis who is a junior at Columbia. You have been married and divorced, twice," she added the latter gently. He always flinched just as hard as if she'd struck him when she informed him of those particulars. "You are currently my fiancé. I'm Kate Beckett. I am a Homicide detective. Seven years ago you started following me for research for a series of novels. You became a civilian consultant, evolved into my partner and an important member of our team. Eventually, we fell in love. We were supposed to be married last May, but you were abducted on our wedding day and were missing for two months." He frowned and looked like he wanted to interrupt, but Kate continued. "You were found unconscious on a small boat on the ocean. When you woke you had no recollection of the two months you were missing," she ended quietly. As he always did, he gasped upon learning of their relationship, his abduction and eventual recovery, then as always, the wave of mortification flushed his features and he hung his head.

Kate hated this part of it. Introducing him to this condensed, bare-bones version of his life, the life he didn't remember, couldn't remember and not being allowed to introduce him to the type of man he is, the goodness he had brought to everyone who knows him. The condensed version without the human version always embarrassed him, always made him feel guilt, shame and regret. Burke said that a minimalist description would be best, so he wouldn't be overwhelmed. She wasn't sure she agreed.

After an extended silence, during which he half-heartedly explored his office, he stood, staring out of the balcony door and asked "How long?"

She didn't ask for elaboration. She knew he wasn't asking how long they'd been a couple or how long they'd been engaged. "This has been happening on and off for two months. It started a few days after you were found. It hasn't happened in a few weeks."

"Why?"

That was a new one. "Why what, Babe?" He turned sharply and glared at her. "Um…sorry." She leaned against his desk.

"Why does it happen? There must be a medical reason…ah…a treatment…something I can do, or not do? Have I've done something to exacerbate the problem?" He scowled. "Do I drink?"

Kate blinked. He'd never asked those questions before. "Not to excess. Dr. Burke…"

"Who is that?"

"Your psychiatrist."

He sat down slowly, fumbling his way inelegantly, onto the soft armchair. He seemed to sink as the air exited his lungs and the foam and supple leather beneath him; his shoulders drooped, the implications dragging him under the rip tide of the words. He sat with his head bowed, clasped between his hands. After several moments, he inhaled a shuddering deep breath and as he lifted his head he asked, "Am I crazy?"

Taken aback at the rawness she saw in his eyes and heard in his voice, she was back in front of him in an instant. "No, oh god no, Rick, no." She grabbed his hand and then tilted his face to look at her. He pulled back. "No. Whatever this is, it was done to you. This and your other injuries…"

"Other?" He sought her eyes again, panicked.

Kate inhaled and sucked her lips in between her teeth. Calmly, she clarified, "You had contracted Dengue Fever and had a partially healed bullet wound in your side." Her eyes involuntarily went to the place on his torso she had wondered and worried over, the place she venerated the same way he revered her scars, with gratitude that he was alive and home and hers.

He followed the track of her eyes and twisted, lifting his tee shirt and his arm. He gingerly placed his fingertips to the rough, dark pink scar. Abruptly he dropped the shirt and stood, crossing to the globe he'd spotted earlier by the bedroom door. "Dengue Fever is prevalent in the tropics. Where were we supposed to get married?" He stared at her, his gaze so penetrating; she had to turn away as if his eyes held all the intensity of the dawn of a new day.

Standing up straighter, she stepped toward him as she explained, "Here…well not…here, here," she gestured to the rest of the apartment. "The Hamptons. You own a house there. Well, really it's an estate on the beach. It was beautiful, Castle."

The woman turned away, but he saw the gleam in her eyes. He'd hurt her. He swallowed his apprehension and hesitation, and stepped behind her, placing his hands tentatively on her shoulders, testing before he squeezed gently. She shuddered and he lightly rubbed his palms up and down her upper arms. "I'm sorry."

She turned quickly and he retreated a few steps. "Castle, we've been over this." He turned his head sharply toward her exasperated tone and raised an eyebrow. She softened and tilted her head. Reaching out, he brushed her fingertips with his own once more. The woman was magnetic. "I…I mean it wasn't your fault then, and now…today, you don't...you don't even remember that part of it." Dropping his fingers, she turned back to the globe and hurriedly swiped her cheek.

He stepped behind her. "I may not remember, but I do know one thing," he exhaled gently next to her ear. He spun her in his arms and lifted her chin with his fingertips. Wiping away the other tear track, he whispered, "I would never want to be the cause of you hurting like this, unless it turns out that I'm some kind of jackass, I guess."

Kate's heart quickened as she felt her lips quirk at the very Richard Castle like comment. "No, no you're not a jackass. You once told me you were a wise-ass, though." For the first time that morning, she saw a smirk: a sign that somewhere deep inside him, beneath the tampering his brain and mind had endured still was he: the Richard Castle she knew and loved. "I'm sorry," she shuddered, cleansing her mind and soul; she ducked her head. "I just thought…I thought this was behind us."

"Kate?" he asked, confirming her name, as he stepped back. She raised her head to look at him. Lacking any better idea, he thrust his hand forward. "I'm so very glad to meet you…again."

Kate looked from his face to his outstretched hand and back again, a tentative smile playing on her lips.

As she took his hand, he asked, "Help me to remember?"

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A/N - After much encouragement from many awesome people, (Operaluvr, concreteangel16, and FuelDH206) I'm publishing this. Special thanks to Perspex13 for your frank and eloquent assessment. Let the haunting begin.

I will try my best to update as often as I can, but my life is the very definition of upheaval right now and will be for the next three months. I hope to use this work as an escape or an oasis. Follow and you will be sure to catch the updates as they come.

As always, thanks for reading.


	2. Devoid

_**A/N - Wow! I am truly in awe of the response to this story. Thank you so much for all the follows, reviews, personal messages and for those who have added this to your favorites.**_

 _ **I have to send a shout out to 12precinct42344 who also provided feedback and encouragement while she previewed this story.**_

 _ **Most of you agree that canon kind of glossed over the fact that Castle's brain had been tampered with by drugs or other means. I hope to address that deficit and hopefully fill in some of the gaps. I hope I will do it justice.**_

 _ **Confession time. I had most of this chapter already written when I posted the first. That's why I'm posting it so quickly. The next will be a while, but I will finish and hopefully have the next chapter posted in July. Thanks for coming with me on this journey, bumpy, though it may be.**_

 _ **Enjoy!**_

 _ **~GeekMom**_

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 **Chapter 2**

 **Devoid**

"Kate?" The doctor opened his door and greeted her. He waited for the introduction he'd heard countless times.

"Rick, this is Dr. Burke."

Rick stood rigidly behind Kate, warily eyeing the psychiatrist.

"Rick, it's good to see you again," Burke said casually. "How are you feeling, today?"

"Compared to what?"

Carter blinked. There weren't too many times he could recall that a patient had made him nonplussed. Castle did, regularly. If it wasn't his circumstances, it was his observations or questions or just his slightly askew point of view. Castle observed the world differently from anyone he had ever known. Carter would have liked the opportunity to talk to him before, without his current crisis, to find out how he thinks and experience his refreshing, sideways perspective. He and Kate had set up couples' counseling to try to deal with the aftermath from his abduction, but Castle's current difficulties took precedence. Richard Castle was, in a word, fascinating.

"Well…I guess, compared to other days."

"I don't remember any other days." He wasn't being flippant, only stating a fact.

"Hm," Burke sighed as he contemplated the writer and his fiancée. "Have a seat, please, both of you." He indicated the sofa, which Kate took, but Rick headed for the single chair, despite his willingness to be close to her at the loft, he'd gradually retreated into himself on the way uptown to Dr. Burke's office. The psychiatrist watched them: Castle's effort at separating himself and Beckett's effort at hiding the hurt she felt. He sighed inwardly again. As difficult as it was on Castle, he thought Beckett might have a harder time coping with it, whatever it was.

In all his years of practice and in academia he'd never seen a case like Castle's. He was aware of several drugs that could suppress memories. Castle had undergone numerous tests to isolate the culprit or culprits, but they had either been well camouflaged in his own amino acids or they had already left his body and if that was the case, his task was to determine what damage had they caused and if it could it be repaired. The tests' results, so far, had been inconclusive and maddening. Elusive, like that wisp of something you see in the corner of your eye. Hell, he wasn't even sure what cocktail he'd been administered, but he was confident it had been a mixture of potentially harmful suppressing agents. Because he was found after drifting at sea for several days, his immediate blood work held no answers either.

"So," he sighed to himself as he began, as if he were a recording played many times, "what brings you two in today?" He knew, of course. Martha had called. Burke made a mental note to offer his couch and services to Castle's family members.

Beckett stared at her knuckles stretched white around her knees, which she had drawn up to her chest: protecting herself.

Castle watched her and Burke intently, unsure if he should be the one to answer, unsure of anything. He swallowed.

Burke waited them out, his eyes darting from one partner to the other.

"I…I guess," Castle croaked. Clearing his throat, he continued, "From what Kate has told me…you're my therapist?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well…" Castle looked down at his feet. He sat forward in the chair, rigid. His shoulders held back and, he probably wasn't aware of it, but his hands were fisted at his sides. Burke braced himself. "What the hell is wrong with me? She says this happens a lot. How come I can't…Will I get it…How does…" He swiped angrily at the hot tears of frustration that had sprung from his eyes.

"Rick?" Burke called calmly; he needed to reach his patient who was standing on the precipice of a panic attack. "No one expects anything from you. I know that you are frantically searching for answers and familiarity, but we've found in the past that relaxing and trying not to force…"

"Have you ever drowned?"

"Rick," Kate began.

"No, it's okay Kate," Burke said. He turned to Castle. "I assume you don't mean that literally."

"I'm in the deep end and I'm going to drown. I am just under the surface, I can see the trees on the shore, the sky, even lily pads on the surface, but no matter how hard I try, I can't grab anything. There is nothing solid, no anchorage."

Burke's eyes cut to Kate who studiously inspected her knuckles from under a curtain of hair. He was sure she was silently crying.

Castle watched the doctor's eyes. "I don't know her," Castle plaintively answered the unasked question in the room. He sighed and then turned to Kate. "Look, we obviously share something, but I don't know if I can trust you. I don't want to hurt you. Any dolt could plainly see your feelings written on your face, in your actions and in the tear tracks on your cheeks. I'm so sorry to be the cause of your pain. I don't want…I would never…" he stopped and searched Burke's unreadable face. "Am I? I don't know if I would…but I'm dealing with my mind…or what's left of it."

She lifted her head and opened her mouth, but was cut off by Burke. "Kate," he whispered and held his finger to his lips. "Rick, we've tried a relaxation technique in the past with good results. I don't think I've ever seen you wound so tightly. Would you like to try?"

"Try what? I mean, what is it, hypnosis or maybe the sitcom remedy where you hit me over the head and all my memories will come back?"

The very edges of Carter's lips rose, a broad smile for the doctor. "Well, we haven't had to resort to anything quite that drastic yet. No, this technique may help you uncoil your blockage this time. It's not guaranteed, but it has worked in the past. It is a form of hypnosis, but…uh…I promise I won't make you cluck like a chicken." Humor was an integral part of Castle. It was a foreign language to Burke, however he still tried to translate his clinician speak for his patient's benefit.

For a long time he looked at Burke, who knew that Rick was trying to decide if he could trust him. He glanced at Kate and deflated. She sat still with her arms coiled around her knees. Talk about wound tightly.

"How many times has it worked?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how many times have you done this to me…for me and how many times has it been successful?"

Burke flipped over pages of his legal pad, scanning each one. His eyes found his patient's too intense gaze and he quickly averted his own back to the page. "Um, we've tried this method thirteen times." Burke paused and looked at Kate who was, grasping a tissue, continuing her silent lament while watching Castle. Burke sighed again. His own self-doubt spoke loudly from the back of his mind and asked why and how he thought he could possibly help either one of these damaged people. He turned his attention back to Castle. "It's had a satisfactory outcome five times."

Castle stared at the doctor and then turned to Kate. She really was lovely, but so distraught. Suddenly, Castle felt sick: he'd done this to her. He'd hurt her and he couldn't stomach it. "Is there a men's room," he asked quietly and then pressed his lips together against the waves of nausea.

Burke nodded and noticing his patient's green pallor, indicated the door to the left of his desk.

Castle nodded and head straight for the door, letting it slam it behind him. Kate startled at the hollow echo and stood to go after him, but Burke shook his head. She sunk back down to her corner of the sofa.

"It's bad," he observed. She nodded. "What did he do last night before bed?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I don't understand. He was doing so much better. Why would it regress like this?"

"I wish I could give you solid answers, Kate, but the truth is that I'm groping in the dark as much as you are." He steepled his fingers in front of him and contemplated their next step. "I'd like to get another round of blood work."

"Oh God, the last one was just two weeks ago. He's starting to look like a pin cushion."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I'm looking for any kind of pattern. I think another scan would be a good idea as well."

"I'm not sure he'll allow me to take him for the tests." She ran a hand through her curls. "He doesn't trust me. Why would he?"

"We've been over this, Kate. It's not personal. This phenomenon leaves him stripped bare and very vulnerable. He has no defenses or as he so eloquently put it, he has no life preserver."

"I know," she spat, through her teeth. "It doesn't make it any easier. I don't blame him. I wouldn't just trust the total stranger that essentially told him he's losing his mind either."

Burke pursed his lips. The frustration seeped from his patient in waves. He sighed but continued. He wasn't in the habit of assuaging his patients' self-recriminations; he'd guide her, but wouldn't offer superficial platitudes. "Let's work the most pressing problem, okay?" He didn't wait for a response. "I can have Rebecca come in from next door." He moved to the desk and picked up the phone. "Sherry, please call Dr. Shaffer and see if we can borrow Rebecca for a moment. Yes, full spectrum, I think. Thanks." He hung up just as Rick returned.

Burke handed him a bottle of water from the dorm-sized fridge behind his desk. "Feeling any better?"

Castle cast his puzzled gaze from Burke to Kate and back again. "Yeah, thanks." He sat down next to the detective on the couch, prompting a raised eyebrow from the doctor and a full body stiffening from Kate. He twisted the cap from his water bottle and downing half in one huge gulp before he realized Burke observing him. "Um…Doc?"

"Rick, I've asked Dr. Shaffer to send her phlebotomist. I think it's important that we know what your blood chemistry looks like at this time."

Rick frowned. "Blood chemistry?" He slid to the edge of the cushion, in alarm. "Why? Because I got sick? He turned his head toward Kate again, relaxed back and leered at her. "Beckett, do you think I'm pregnant? Because, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way." Kate stoically stared at her lap. Castle dragged his gaze from Kate to Burke when his attempt to make her smile or, at the very least, admonish his behavior, fell flat. He frowned. "What does this have to do with couples counseling?"

Kate stared at him. Castle looked at their shrink, who wore his astonishment like a neon sign outside an open all night diner along with an big, open mouth any Largemouth Bass would be proud to claim.

Castle frowned again. "Kate?" he begged her to look at him.

As soon as the first sobs escaped her mouth, he wrapped his arms around her. "Sweetheart, sh. What's wrong? Dr. Burke?" Castle helplessly held his fiancée through her tears, pleading with the psychiatrist over her shoulder.

Burke sighed, made a notation on his rapidly filling legal pad and sought Castle's eyes. "You were gone again…"

Castle scowled. " _Gone_ , gone? Not just out of the room?"

Burke nodded. "It's the reason you're both here today. You were experiencing an episode until you went to the men's room," he finished and shook his head. "Welcome back, but damn, this is frustrating." All three of them had taken to referring to non-memory periods as if he had left on a business trip: gone. Castle jokingly remarked that it was more like a pleasure trip because there had been a time in his life when he couldn't remember those either.

Castle regarded Burke, letting his words sink in. Consulting his watch, he calculated the time he had probably been 'gone' as the better part of the day. "Oh shit," he mumbled as he pulled Kate closer. "I'm so sorry, Sweetheart…so sorry." He rubbed her back and kissed her forehead as he spoke quietly to her.

Burke noted that he usually created new memories while he was 'gone' and retained that information as well as the fact that he had not remembered his life and family. The ignominy the knowledge caused had been a sub-issue they had worked on, the culpability he instinctively assumed when he learned he had been gone had been challenging.

"Wait…I _don't_ remember…Why don't I remember being gone this time?"

Burke narrowed his eyes. "What do you remember from today?"

"I was sick…just now, like I'd been on the tea cups at an amusement park."

"Those always make you nauseous," Kate offered. Relieved that she seemed to have brought herself back from the despondency that had gripped her earlier, Burke nodded that it was good she was contributing.

"Yeah, I think you postulated that I had too big of a head and not enough brains: they kept sloshing with the spinning."

"Besides the nausea and your trip to the men's room," the doctor redirected, "what else do you remember about today?"

Castle started to speak, but stopped. He dropped his gaze to the carpet and then quickly back up to Kate, who was watching him intently. "I…" realizing he had nothing to say, he sought out Burke. Castle swallowed and felt the panic attack rising: the waves of cold chills up his back and arms accompanied by shallow breathing and perspiration. "I don't," he finally croaked.

Beckett reached for Castle's fisted hand, prying his death grip off the edge of the couch cushion. "I've got you, Babe. Just breathe," she murmured. Her other hand rubbed across his shoulders.

After a moment of confusion as to what was happening, Burke rose and crossed to his patient. Squatting in front of him so he could hear his voice, he spoke softly, but urgently. "Rick, I want you to concentrate on my voice. You're here, you're safe, and you're present, right here."

Several anxious moments later, and repeated affirmations, care and validations from both Kate and him, Burke saw the tension begin to ebb from Castle's rigid muscles; his eyes focused and his breathing slowed and deepened. He squeezed Rick's knee, stood and crossed to the door in answer to the soft knock he knew would reveal the technician from the medical practice in the next door suite. He spoke quietly and then turned to Castle. "Rebecca is here. May I proceed Rick?"

Fighting down a wave of uncertainty and a revisit of his panic, he quickly looked from Burke to Kate. He didn't fear needles or poking and prodding, but his mind was struggling to connect the dots. As far as he was concerned, they were working on getting back their normal: to pick up where they left off before he was taken, he and Kate had committed to counseling, but that was before.

"What will this blood test tell you that the others haven't?

The implacable doctor stared at Castle. For the first time since he'd known him, Castle saw indecision on his face.

"I don't know." He looked down scrutinizing his laced fingers on top of the pad full of Richard Castle notes and questions. "I don't know how to proceed. I…I'm treating the consequences, but I can't get down to the causation." The doctor closed his eyes and rubbed them with his broad finger and thumb.

"Okay. Come on Vampira," Rick consented as he rolled up his sleeve.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "I've never heard that one, Mr. Castle." She dropped the required paperwork on Burke's desk blotter.

Burke filled out the necessary information as Rebecca began her work. "You're clean, except for the donepezil, right?" Burke asked. Lifting his eyes, he asked, "Are you taking that?"

Kate spoke up after clearing her throat. "He had one this morning, after…"

"After?"

"After we figured out what was happening."

Burke scowled and flipped open Rick's folder. "I thought I prescribed that daily."

"It makes him sick…"

"And sluggish," Castle added. "Ow," he complained to the technician who raised her eyebrow, not in any sympathy. She had taken his blood several times and was familiar with his teasing. Castle explained, "I can't think or work or even just give in to the overwhelming sleepiness…I have severe, extremely vivid nightmares when I'm taking it."

"Ah." Burke pursed his lips. "Okay. I want you to stop taking it. Next time though, please tell me if you have side-effects you can't tolerate." He inhaled deeply and watched Rebecca finish. "Thanks, Rebecca. Could you put a rush…"

"At the lab," she finished tolerantly. Dr. Burke's orders were always a rush.

"Thanks," he said and watched her close the door before he continued. "If you're willing Rick, let's get the results of this test and then I want you to consider some specialized testing."

Kate slid to the edge of the couch and laced her fingers through his. "Specialized? What kind of…"

Burke pressed his lips against his teeth, stared at his desk before he spoke. Castle wondered if the doctor had ever uttered an unplanned, not thought out or thought through phrase in his life.

"Part of our challenge, I believe, is not being able to see your brain function when you're experiencing the dementia."

"Dementia?" Kate squeaked. She could feel Castle's anxiety rising next to her.

"Sorry, sorry…the clinician in me took over. And although that diagnosis has distressing implications, essentially dementia is a decline or loss of reasoning, memory, and other cognitive functions." Both of his patients looked at him with fear in their eyes. "If it will make you feel better we can continue to refer to your episodes as 'gone,' but…" he stopped and considered his words. "Regardless of how we label it, you are experiencing significant loss of memory. The mystery is the cause and why it is unstable and unpredictable. Usually in dementia, we see a steady decline in cognitive functions, but your episodes are as if someone is indiscriminately flipping a switch. It's frustrating."

Castle licked his lips and inhaled as he quietly agreed, "Tell me about it. Kate squeezed his hand in support. "What kind of specialized testing?" Castle asked cautiously once his mind stopped reeling.

"I have a friend who runs a clinic. Cognitive testing, memory evaluations and basic IQ as well as sleep disorder studies."

Seeking Kate's eyes and what he could read there and what she thought about the testing, but found she had retreated behind her curtain again, he turned his gaze back to the doctor and joked, "So…should I get cheese or flowers for Algernon?"

Burke, by now used to his patient's habit of using his offbeat sense of humor to deflect his fears, did not miss a beat and played along. "I said nothing about making you more intelligent."

"Touché," Castle answered, grinning. "Lost cause, huh Kate?" He nudged her shoulder and she lifted her head, smiling tentatively.

Castle stood and offered her his hand after he rubbed both palms on his thighs. "Carter? Can we consider it while you contact your friend?"

Burke also stood and tilted his head. Castle very rarely used the doctor's first name, even though Burke had invited him to do so early on in an effort to make the writer more at ease. It was interesting to Burke that when Castle used the more intimate address, he was, in point of fact, actively pushing him away, creating a barrier of sorts and keeping Burke at arm's length. That told him that this latest episode was even more different than he'd observed and had genuinely scared the writer.

"Are we good for now?" Castle asked, a little too quickly Kate noted. Castle had begun moving toward the door.

When he didn't immediately respond, Kate prompted, "Dr. Burke?"

Burke re-emerged from his ponderings. "Sorry…sorry: lots of things to do. Just making a mental list," he lied. Not completely. He was making a list of phone calls he'd need to make and favors he'd need to call in as well as promise in order to get his patient into the program and studies as well as analyzing him. "We're good for now. Rick, I'll call you when I've made the arrangements." He walked them to his office door. "I know this has been hard on both of you and you want answers, but I don't want to assume that these next sets of evaluations will be your priority. You both have to agree and embrace the process."

"Of course they are a priority," Kate blurted and then just as abruptly, she covered her mouth with her hand, apologizing for speaking for her fiancé.

Burke noted that Castle looked stricken by her impatience. "Rick? Will you leave your availability with Sarah?"

Castle was still intently staring at his partner. He swallowed and slowly dragged his eyes back to Carter's. "Of course," he murmured as he looked at her again. His body language told the doctor he'd made a decision. "I'll…of course," he repeated, "This is my priority, Doctor. I can clear my schedule. Just let me know." He reached for and shook Burke's hand. He turned to Kate. "Did you bring…"

"The Mercedes," she finished as she tossed him the keys. "It's on the second level, near the stairs. She dropped her head. "I…um…I need to visit the ladies' room. I'll follow?"

Castle did very well. He didn't let his eyes dart back to Burke even though he knew Kate wanted to speak with the doctor in private. He smiled. "Of course," he stepped back and kissed her temple. "Take as much time as you need."

They both left a dissatisfied therapist standing in his office doorway: Castle toward the bank of elevators as quickly as he could make his escape and Beckett in the opposite direction toward the public rest rooms. He shook his head and lingered in his own waiting room while he waited for Beckett to return.

She checked the hallway and confident that her fiancé had left, she walked back to Burke.

Burke regarded her. So far, she'd kept herself together remarkably well, given the circumstances, with the exception of her understandable emotional responses earlier during the session. Given her history, he was actually quite pleased with her openness. There was once an incarnation of Kate Beckett who would have held herself back and run away as far as she could from the tumultuous life she was currently leading. She would have run away and hidden herself and her feelings behind the fortification she'd built around her heart after the anguish she suffered because of her mother's death.

He tilted his head. "You wanted to speak to me?" he opened unnecessarily. He already knew it and so did Castle.

* * *

He let the Mercedes idle with the hazards flashing, double-parked outside of Burke's building. While they had been inside, the skies had opened up and a rain fell over the city, washing the grime and cleansing the streets of decaying leaves and the ever-present bits of litter. He stared blindly at the reflections of brake lights in the wet pavement, only blinking when the intermittent wipers broke his line of sight. Castle didn't begrudge Beckett her one-on-one time with the psychiatrist; he just wished she'd honestly said that she needed to talk to him alone, but he couldn't remain another minute without suffocating. They still had so many issues to iron out. His memory lapses and the times he was gone just added more obstacles and distance from their normal, everyday couples' problems let alone working through their feelings surrounding his abduction and eventual return.

Although no one would ever claim that they were a normal or everyday couple.

Their problems included little things like brushes with death too often to count, although he knew the number and if they were cats, they would have been dead a couple of lives ago. He wondered how many other couples in couple's therapy had to worry about psychopaths and power-hungry killers who wanted them dead or worse. He longed to be peeved by her habit of squeezing the toothpaste tube from the middle or the day she would finally get upset by his inability to revert from his days of bachelorhood and finally put the seat down. Normal problems. Not problems like kidnapping or eight weeks of memory loss; not problems, even though everyone from Kate to her father to Burke emphasizes and reassures him that it wasn't his fault, like the fact that he left the love of his life waiting for him at the altar, like some cad in a low-budget swashbuckling movie. Not to mention the problem dancing around the uncertainty of his sanity.

Dementia.

He'd wondered if Burke had labeled his issues like that before. He didn't recall ever hearing him call it that, but he couldn't really trust his memory, could he. He wondered how many times he'd hurt Beckett this way, how many times she'd looked at him only to find a stranger staring back.

He startled when she opened the door and jumped in, escaping the fat icy drops of the autumn rain. Her hair was damp and had begun to curl more around her face. Kate buckled in without comment and he pulled into traffic.

She watched the pedestrians' umbrellas bumping into one another or the huddled masses, not those seeking freedom, but shelter from the storm under the awnings of the store fronts along Broadway. The traffic behaved in typical fashion for a rainy New York afternoon: it wasn't moving. Regardless, Rick kept his eyes on the backend of the new black BMW sporting a vanity plate that ironically read, 'Struggle' in front of them or darting to his mirrors. He was a good driver, even though she rarely let him drive at work, he was relaxed and alert, confident behind the wheel. He typically drove with his left hand on the wheel and his right tangled in her fingers or on the gear shift, a throwback, he'd told her, to his first car, a 1971 used Corolla with a manual transmission. He'd bought it during his first year at college. The paint job was so oxidized that it was the color of tomato soup. He practically had to sit in the back seat to fit into its cramped interior. The ridiculous image his story telling brought to mind of him in a Campbell's tomato soup can car, wearing a chef's hat always made her smile.

"I'm going to go," he said, even though his voice was low and the windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm, it shattered the muted stoicism of the car's interior.

"Go?"

"To do whatever Burke devises," Castle explained as he futilely slid into the next lane over. "I can't keep…I don't want to do this to…I don't want to do this anymore."

"What if it's dangerous?"

"More dangerous than waking up with a stranger?"

She didn't know if he was referring to himself or her. "You've never been dangerous," she said quietly.

Castle smirked, sweeping the more difficult parts of the conversation away for the time being. "Maybe I haven't been seducing you the right way. Not enough bad boy."

Kate grinned, but kept her gaze out of the window, as she recalled her description of him as having a bad boy charm thing when they'd first met. She blushed when she realized that she'd fallen for him just as hard as all of the bimbettes and celebutantes.

"So which are you?" His rich, playful voice was still the same as it had been so many years ago.

She frowned. "Which what?"

"A bimbette or celebutante," he crooned. She swore he could read her thoughts some times.

She cocked her head at him, her smile wide and her eyes playful. This felt like them: bantering and teasing with an underlying layer of love. "Jeez Castle, do you remember everything?"

It was out in the space of the car's cabin before she thought, after she could call it back. It had smacked all of the burgeoning humor off his face as surely as if she had slapped him.

He gripped the wheel tighter and she could see his jaw muscles contract.

"I'm sorry, Castle. I didn't…"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "This is why I need to go."

"What?"

"This feeling: the suffocating, interminable, too heavy blanket over us. I don't want you to have to censor what you say to me in fear that you might upset me or that I might not remember something. God, Kate, if we can't laugh about…" he swallowed and tried again, "If we can't…" he sighed, unable to utter the implications. "I need to overcome this and I need to do everything I can to make that happen."

"What if it doesn't work? What if it makes it worse or perma…"

He interrupted her. He didn't want to give the risks a voice. "But, Sweetheart, what if it does work? What if it restores all of the lost time? It kills me—the not knowing."

"I know. It's like you're reading a book and several pages have been torn out of the middle."

"That's a great analogy. My writing expertise must be rubbing off on you."

"Thanks, but no: you said that. You said that to me when you first came home."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "But I don't remember."


	3. Vacuous

_**A/N - I know I write this all the time, but I truly appreciate the readership, reviews and comments from guests and members, personal messages or questions and compliments.**_

 _ **Life is still crazy, but this is proving to be very cathartic. Heh! Writing about Castle's dubious mental health is helping my mental health.**_

 _ **Please enjoy!**_

 _ **~GeekMom**_

* * *

 **Blank page**

 **Chapter 3**

 **Vacuous**

He had gone to bed willingly.

'Willingly' if willingly meant that she had reassured that if he woke up and had gone again, she would bring him back. Always, she'd bring him back. Gone to bed, if 'gone to bed' meant lying down for two minutes before jumping back up to take care of something important. 'Important' things like counting the number of strawberries in the fruit bin to make sure he'd have enough to make Alexis strawberry happy face pancakes in the morning. He also had to organize his socks by solemnity, straighten the staircase picture behind his desk, search the internet for a horse head squirrel feeder, even though Kate reminded him that he didn't have a yard, which then he thanked her for reminding him to look for properties for sale in West Chester County. She'd dragged him back to bed after the fourth realty site he perused, he'd found an actual castle and proclaimed the find, serendipitous. She took him back to bed, draped her body over his like a weighted net, and kept him there. He'd finally 'gone to bed' with her, but didn't sleep. Instead, he tucked her next to him as he read Alex's new book; well he only read the first seven and the last two chapters, declaring he'd figured out the identity of the murderer and his motive by the third and then went into a twenty-minute diatribe about the obvious solution and his distaste about settling for cookie cutter plots and cheap counter-plot devices. He did not see the blonde's betrayal though, so that was something. All in all, it ended as a kudos for Alex.

After plumping his pillows and lifting the sheets and blankets so they'd billow in the captured air like a parachute and settle perfectly over them—twice, he lay back down in bed. She shivered and snuggled close, her arm possessively and with any luck, constrictively over his midsection. Not five minutes later, he rolled out from under her, threw back the carefully placed bed covers and went into the bathroom, only to return a moment later at full speed, slowing long enough to grab his robe and head out to the kitchen. Kate rolled her eyes, pulled the blanket back up over her body and adjusted her pillow under her head and shoulders in a vain effort to keep the stress headache emanating from the vise-grip at the base of her skull at bay.

He reentered the bedroom with his toolbox, but without comment, crossed to the bathroom and shut the door.

Kate stared at the door, looked at the bedside clock and sighed, "Three-thirty in the morning." Grunting, she rolled out of bed and grabbed her own robe, shrugged into it and went to the bathroom door.

Over the past three weeks he'd gone to bed understanding that she would bring him back if he awoke gone.

He had been 'gone' six times in the past three weeks. Only twice did he not remember his 'gone' time. The first week after Burke's diagnosis, he had been afraid to close his eyes for more than a catnap, but she'd eventually convinced him that the word Burke had used was just a label and coaxed him to real rest.

The word 'dementia' had alarmed her as much as it had him. The day Burke had first used the term, after she had returned from the ladies room, she'd asked about it and anything she needed to know or do now that they were calling his episodes dementia. Burke had told her that her feelings and concerns were perfectly natural given their circumstances. Burke told her that she had a worse battle and that he wanted to see her separately to make sure she was prepared. Whereas Castle's struggle was that he would know _that_ he didn't remember—she would know _what_ he didn't remember: their life together, their struggles and joys, their history and hard fought for future, all their plans. A wedding, pitilessly postponed indefinitely as if the universe perpetually dangled a cosmic carrot in front of their faces, but cruelly yanked it away, time and time again.

After the second episode (post diagnosis label) he wrote a letter to himself. He briefly explained his life, the situation and that it was okay to trust Beckett, his mother and Alexis, much the same way Kate had given him, 'just the facts, ma'am,' early on and she had protested, but he didn't want her to have to bare that burden. It wasn't solely up to her to rescue him. He hadn't believed the letter the first time she gave it to him, so he signed it and then compared his signature – his procedural memory had remained unaffected.

He'd gone to sleep willingly after they'd come up with proactive ways that assured him that if he was gone again, he would be easier to bring back. Ways that assured him that the weight wouldn't be on Kate or his family.

Tonight was different. The next day they would drive to New Jersey and she would leave him at Burke's friend's clinic. It had been a struggle scheduling all the studies Doctor Burke wanted in a succinct time frame and only with the help of a generous donation from an 'anonymous' benefactor could he get Castle into some of the more governmentally regulated tests and experimental assessments that he'd made by special arrangement.

Neither of them could sleep. They were aware that they could be on the brink of solving his mysteries or…not. They were also very mindful that he could be cured—or not…or worse. The forms he'd had to sign for the NYPD had nothing on the stack of release forms for the clinic.

Kate cracked opened the door slowly and peered into the bathroom.

Castle was talented. He was a creative and successful writer, he could play the piano, speak French, dance in many styles, he was a world-class father, an accomplished and inventive cook; if he ever chose to, he could make a living playing poker professionally and the list of his aptitudes went on. He was not, however, handy around the house. Like everything else, he'd done extensive research and had detailed instructions on how to 'do it himself,' but basic carpentry, electrical and plumbing repairs almost always ended badly.

She cleared her throat, hoping that the rest of her fiancé was still alive and attached to the legs and lower half of the torso protruding from the open vanity doors. There was no response. His robe was open and splayed around his frame, but beside that, he wore only his deep blue, silk boxers and a tan.

His toes danced to a personal soundtrack only he could hear. He'd often danced or worked to the indefinite melodies in his head. She had often wondered how the mystery melody would sound: she was positive it had a fast tempo, but whether it was adventurous or a rock anthem or a spy theme would remain a mystery.

The gunmetal gray toolbox sat on the floor, its lid flipped open, with a good number of wrenches, pliers, a hammer and poetically, a vise-grip strewn over the plush and absorbent throw rug she loved squishing her toes into after a bath or shower. There were a number of tools still enclosed in the box along with a soft gray tee shirt folded with care and adorned with a picture of a cartoony hammer in the corner. She figured he used it as a rag.

"Castle?"

He grunted, "Almost…" another grunt and his left leg did some sort of spasm/dance which was followed by a victory whoop. "Yeah; who's the man?" His toes rhythmically danced in a characteristic victory dance. "Mario, eat your princess-chasing heart out."

After clamping her lips between her teeth to contain the giggle, she tried again, a little louder. "Castle?"

"Oh hey! Good, I'm glad you're here." He sounded like he was speaking into a jar. "Would you turn on the cold water, please?"

She reached for the handle, but hesitated. "Do you think that's a good idea? Do you remember when you rewired the sound system?"

" _That_ was a very small fire," he scoffed. "Just turn on the water," he repeated, sullenly.

The faucet gurgled and then a glacially slow initial drip was followed by a thin, weak stream of water, which was followed by an even stronger stream flowing from the fixture. Holding her breath during the first ten seconds, she gradually relaxed and considered being impressed with his handiwork before a high pitched whine filled the room. The whine's pitch rose just before the faucet handle launched itself into the air, indenting the ceiling, ricocheting off the tile and clattering into the sink where it finally succumbed to its fate after several death throes. The faucet converted to a lovely miniature fountain.

Meanwhile, the Mario under the sink cursed, possibly in Italian, and frantically shut off the water supply.

"Well that's a mess I'm not cleaning up in the middle of the night," Kate declared. "I'm going back to bed, Mario. I'll call Luigi tomorrow." She bent over to look at him. "Would you like to raise your flag, now that you've rescued the princess?"

Lifting his head, he leered and licked his lips. "It's a-me, Mario!" he exclaimed in an accent as cheesy as the video game hero's mustache. She loved the want she saw in his eyes. Sitting up quickly, he whacked his head on the bowl of the sink. "Son of a bitch!" he cursed, still in the accent.

She was on her knees in an instant and helping him out from under the too small space. "Oh God, Castle: are you okay?" She rubbed her fingers over the pink knot forming on his forehead once she had him sitting outside of the cabinet.

He winced at her touch, but then focused on her. "Who…who are you?"

She felt all the warmth and blood drain from her body. "How…" she breathlessly croaked.

He grinned wickedly and practically burst with his laughter "Oh Kate, no…" he laughed. "Jeez, you should have seen your face."

She punched his shoulder. "How can you even joke about that?"

"Ow, no… kidding, I'm kidding." He held his hands in front of him in surrender.

"Jackass!" she spewed as she left him sitting there.

He came bounding out of the bathroom and bounced onto the bed mere seconds after she cocooned herself within their blankets. "I'm sorry. Come on, Sweetheart." He tugged at the blankets that she held in a death grip.

"Leave me alone, Castle." The sound accompanying her command was truly terrifying: a cross between a growl and a banshee's scream.

He sat back on his heels. "I'm sorry Beckett, I didn't think." He tentatively rubbed his hand on her back.

Or what he thought was her back. "Jesus Castle! Get your hands off my ass!"

Undeterred, he bounced on the mattress, shuffling closer to her, spooning her (now that he knew where her ass truly was). "That's not what you said earlier."

"Do you _not_ get that I'm mad at you?"

"Yes, I get that, but I think you're blowing it…um…I think your response is entirely over-inflated…" He cut himself off.

"I thought you were explaining yourself and apologizing," Beckett mumbled from under her pillow.

"I was, but it's the strangest thing: I think that since I bumped my head, I can only speak in innuendo. I wonder if Burke has a test for that."

"That has nothing to do with you bumping your head."

He grinned. "It's true: innuendo is my second language." He snuggled closer to her and she uncovered her head. He brushed her hair out of the way and placed a kiss on her neck. "I really am sorry for being a jackass. I just didn't stop and think. Can a brain be subject to a satellite delay?"

Kate turned in his embrace and sighed. "No, you're just a big, dumb idiot sometimes."

He kissed her forehead. "Yeah: Mother calls it testosterone poisoning."

Kate grinned and snuggled next to his bare chest. "My mom called it the Y chromosome syndrome."

They were silent for a while; the only sound was the cadence of his heartbeat offset with his even breathing that acted as counterpoint. She thought he might have finally drifted to sleep. Lifting her head to check, she was met by his eyes, contemplating her unwaveringly.

"I love you, you know."

"I know, Castle. I love you, too."

He scooted down to kiss her deeply, lovingly. As he ended the kiss, he flopped onto his back, pulling her with him. Quiet and stillness permeated their space despite the repetitive and percussive drip from the leaky faucet.

He inhaled deeply and once again Kate hoped he was finally going to settle in for the rest of the night. Instead, he quietly confessed, "I'm scared, Kate," breaking their insulated bubble.

Running her fingertips over his chest, she inhaled. "I know," she murmured into his shoulder. Lying next to him with her head on his chest, able to hear his beautiful, strong heart, absorbing his warmth and safe in his love was her favorite place to be. She didn't offer anything else: no glad platitudes or cheerful aphorisms promising that all would be sunshine and lollipops. Neither of them believed that.

They'd been over all the pros and cons as if the therapy was a mystery to be solved. When it came right down to it, they both needed answers. Why his memory lapses happened, what caused them, and how or if it could be controlled or stopped. They needed the answers and Burke felt that this was their best possible course of action to find those answers. As was his custom when he wanted to understand something, Castle had logged hours of meticulous and exhaustive research, both online and at the NYU and Columbia medical libraries as well as the Albert Einstein College of Medicine.

She'd supported him and trusted his investigation, but sought her own answers from Burke finding it easier to process everything in a one on one lecture and tutoring session.

He was scheduled to undergo a battery of studies along with observation of his routine activities while constantly monitored. The latest blood tests revealed a negligible abnormality in his chemistry, but Burke and his friend, Dr. Simon Delozier, a Neuro-surgeon and psychiatrist, specializing in neurologic disorders and mental illness and the director of the Adler Center, the clinic where Castle would be studied, believed that while that was a place to start, they would begin again and more in-depth after Castle had been processed in.

His mind was everything to who he was, always active, always thinking and processing and they were both concerned (read terrified, but in deference to each other's fears, they self-sacrificially kept that to themselves) about the potential complications associated with the type of invasive procedures Simon had laid out for them.

Deciding that sleep was a futile pursuit, they made love until she reluctantly got up to shower and he went to make breakfast and start the Times' crossword. As if it was a normal morning.

* * *

Alexis opened her eyes, stretched and then what the day was to hold, slammed into her as resonantly as if she had driven a test vehicle into that steel reinforced wall. She'd say goodbye to her dad who was in effect, being committed at a clinic more than an hour away, for psychiatric testing. Both she and her grandmother had stayed at the loft so they could spend time and enjoy breakfast together. All three of his women had come to an agreement to be strong for him. The three of them had had regular meetings since he first began having the episodes: they needed to be on the same page about how they acted and reacted around him.

They were all scared. Alexis found their different reactions interesting and telling. Beckett buried it inside, finding it easier to compartmentalize, analyze and then deal with it in a more manageable organization.

Her grandmother continued being her grandmother. If you truly knew her, you would see that beneath the outwardly and overly dramatic gestures, she was genuinely worried. Alexis could see it in her eyes.

And as for her own way of coping, Alexis spent hours in research, much like her dad, but like Kate, she also spoke to her psych professors and her own therapist, whom she had been seeing since Paris, trying to make sense of what had been done to her dad. Although she still feared for him, her dad had been honest with her and her grandmother about the risks, she was certain that the clinic was a good choice and he would be good…better, in fact for going.

All throughout her rather atypical childhood, through her mother's indifference and the more normal trials and tribulations of childhood and teen years, she could always count on the unconditional love her father gave her: lavished on her really, through his actions, his efforts and the way he looked at her as if she were the best thing that could ever happen to him in the world with so much love and pride. She sought that look whenever she was feeling down or unsure and he'd never disappointed her. She didn't know if she'd be able to take one more time of him looking at her as if he was looking at a stranger: without any recognition or love. Checking into the clinic was the best course of action, in her estimation for both her dad and herself. The knowledge brought her a feeling of serenity, although she knew it would not make the day any easier.

She exhaled the breath she had been holding, shuddered, wiped a stray tear and began to get ready for the day. The clinic was the best course of action, she repeated to herself.

* * *

Standing on the steps, half-way down to the kitchen, she watched him smoothly glide and dance his way around his kitchen, cooking for them: one of his joys, one of the many ways he took care of them all. It was a part of who her son was: a nurturer. In fact, he was better at it than she was. He took care of her when she had nowhere else to go. He brought her into his home and not only made sure she had been sheltered, but had been cared for in all ways, with food, family, and even an allowance.

He didn't have to. He could have set her up in an apartment on her own, put her back on her feet and sent her on her way, but he wanted to bring her under his protection. He saw that, more than just the emotional and financial hurt she'd suffered, she had been blindsided by what she believed was love and trust. Her son, without question, took it upon himself to restore that as well. He made it better.

Martha had traversed her share of the ups and downs of life: worries about jobs or the lack of them, putting food on the table and a roof over their heads, about whether she was a good enough mother. She never thought she was.

From time to time the roof belonged to a friend's van or the dressing room in a theatre where she had a job. At times the food was leftovers from a waitressing job. He loved the day-old doughnuts. Every now and then when things became especially difficult and she had convinced herself that she had hands-down won the award for worst mother, her son with his loving eyes and open and honest soul would remind her that as far as he was concerned, she was perfect for him. For all the tough times and it was a hard life: not having the support of a husband while pregnant with or raising Richard, not being sure from where their next meal would come, but nothing: absolutely nothing was as hard as seeing your child suffer and not being able to make it better.

Martha had never felt so helpless as she did whenever she would discover that he was suffering a memory lapse. Because of Kate's responsibilities and Alexis' school schedules, she, who had the most flexible schedule, had the most experience in finding him gone. Even the times he'd been dangerously distraught after Kyra's abandonment and then again, after Meredith's betrayal, she'd been able to help. Not being able to reach out and help the befuddled stranger who looked like her son, but who did not know her, aged her more than any trial she had so far endured. And that day he was going away to try to understand and fix it. And he'd be out of her reach. He had long ago become his own man, indeed, responsible for himself, his daughter and Martha, but as his mother, she couldn't help feeling like she was kicking him out of the nest.

Fortifying herself with a deep breath, she donned her best, brightest expression, her most supportive, but the expected flippant attitude for him and continued down the stairs.

"Good morning, Darling," she proclaimed as she breezed into the kitchen, the kimono-style sleeves of her silk robe fluttering around her like giant butterflies before she gracefully perched on a barstool by the breakfast bar.

Castle almost dropped his spatula with his mother's sudden, sharp intonation and appearance. Normally he'd hear her descend. Martha Rodgers always made an entrance. He turned, puzzled: it was too early for her to be up and coherent. He chuckled and then realized that she, somewhere in her soft, gooey center, must have wanted to spend time with him before he left.

He felt like he was on death row; a final conjugal visit last night with his love and his mother wanting alone time. If they asked what he wanted for his meal, he was ready to head for the hills or a non-extradition country, preferably somewhere warmer than New York.

He swallowed, not sure if he was going to make it through if he had his mother worried so much that she'd become maudlin. He needed normalcy: a wisecrack about how what he was wearing simply would clash with the hue of the straight jacket or a glib reminder not to forget why he was going. There were too many eggshells under their feet lately.

"Mother, you're up early. Too much of a hangover to sleep in?" He grinned as he leaned across the countertop to plant a kiss on her cheek.

"Very funny: no…no hangover today. Maybe I just wanted a few moments with my son. You know…" Martha stopped. She watched sadness cross her son's features, passing quickly, but there nonetheless. "Richard?"

Swallowing, he carefully laid the spatula o the countertop, took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. "I'm going to be okay," he assured her. "It's me; I'm here and I can still take a joke. You haven't taken a crack at me in weeks. How am I to remain humble and grounded if you're not doing your job?"

He smiled, remembering a conversation with Alexis about his mother's tough love. _'Oh, come on. You know she does it out of love, right?_ ' his daughter reminded him, _'I mean, she thinks it's her job to keep you grounded.'_ He replied that he certainly felt ground, but through any of it, he'd never felt unloved. It was just how they were.

He exhaled and closed his eyes. "Please Mother," he implored, opening his baby blues she could never refuse. "I need our normal."

Martha stared at her son, who knew her and the way she loved him. He had never doubted her love, nor she, his, even when couched in the razor-edged wit and witticisms or the consistent praises embedded like intricate secret codes in, what might seem to anyone outside, denigrations.

"Fine," she began and he winced as if she were winding up the perfect pitch. Only, it didn't come. "Let me sample some of your cooking before I get started, Kiddo and coffee, lots of coffee. Only crazy people are awake this early. You simply cannot expect me to be coherent yet."

"Or ever," he mumbled as he turned to the coffee pot, a smirk on his face.

"I heard that," she warned him.

They were joined presently by the other two women whom Richard Castle adored and enjoyed a quiet, subdued breakfast. He couldn't blame them. Small talk about the weather, school, work or sports seemed inadequate and inane, but safe and neutral in light of what they were facing. What do you say to someone who was going to the funny farm? Burke had asked him not to call it that, but the Adler Clinic was literally located on a farm, nestled between the barn and the horse pasture, it was a turn of the twentieth century converted farmhouse, located in the most northwest corner of the state in Sussex County. Spectacular scenic views of rolling hills and meadows, forests and farms all nestled in the shadow of the Kittatinny Ridge, made the clinic a relaxing and restorative place. Reducing or eliminating their patients' anxiety levels helped to diagnose and treat their actual ailments more effectively. Still, calling it the funny farm was too good of a joke to pass up.

About to jump up to do the dishes and in reality secure an escape from the awkwardness of the meal with the three people he should have felt the least awkwardness with; he was stopped midway between sitting and standing by a knock on the door. He furrowed his brow. "Anyone expecting anyone?" he asked of the table's occupants, who had all studiously and suspiciously ignored the knock. He narrowed his eyes: his spidey sense on high alert.

"Oh just answer the door, Richard," his mother huffed as she sipped her mimosa.

Aware of a probable setup, he peered through the peephole. All he saw was the top of a medical examiner's head.

"Open up, writer-boy," Lanie ordered from the hall as she raised herself to look into his peephole.

He turned back to the three co-conspirators sitting at the table. Castle pursed his lips, huffed and swung the door open to welcome Lanie, Esposito and Ryan. Lanie shoved a pink bakery box of pastries into his hands as she burst through the door, headed for her best friend.

"Hey Castle," Espo said, fist-bumping the writer on his way past.

Ryan followed, not immediately making eye contact with Castle.

"Ryan?" Castle greeted, uncertainly. The younger man lifted his eyes to him.

"Hi…um…Castle?"

Castle smiled sadly. Ryan wasn't sure if Castle was here or gone. Their partners had been briefed, of course, along with the captain. Kate had needed to take significant time off from work and she, after seeking his permission, had come clean with their team. They hadn't believed her at first, thinking the whole story was just some kind of set-up for a Castle prank, until a case where they all put in many hours of overtime and Castle had fallen asleep on the break-room couch, while waiting for the umpteenth report from ballistics. He awoke to the smell of coffee and the fact that he was in a police precinct without memory of how he came to be there. They'd witnessed an memory lapse firsthand. Esposito had to be convinced, but Ryan had been shaken: the extent of the damage done to his friend evident. That was the last time he worked a case.

"Kev," he said softly. "It's me. I'm here."

Relief washed over Ryan's countenance and he man-hugged his friend. Castle indicated the dining room to him and ushered Ryan ahead of him. He closed the door and checked his watch. They'd have to leave soon, but could enjoy a few moments with their friends.

* * *

"So you don't remember anything?"

"Javi," Lanie admonished.

"No, it's okay Lanie. It's not a secret." He glanced at Kate, who he knew had kept most of what they had gone through to herself, only revealing enough to satisfy and quiet their concerns. "When it happens, I remember how to walk and talk, Burke calls that part of my procedural memory—I've been doing them so long that my brain knows and remembers it automatically. I don't have to prompt it into remembering, but beyond that…" He shook his head and shrugged.

"Not even Alexis?" Kevin asked, incredulous that the writer could forget the most important person in his life.

Rick smiled at his daughter and stroked the back of her head affectionately. "It's certainly not by choice, but no, not even Alexis. Or Mother or Kate for that matter." His eyes gently caressed each of them as he spoke their names. Feeling the need to lighten things up, he grinned. "I don't even remember you or Espo, but I'm not exactly sure what the loss is there."

"Dude," Espo grunted. "Just for that, I'm not reminding you that you have a Ferrari, which by the way, you should leave with me for safe keeping."

"Too late, I've already added it to my letter with an annotation to not lend it to you."

"What letter, Castle?" Ryan asked. Their younger partner had been relatively quiet throughout their visit.

"I didn't want Kate to have to…" he reached for her hand and squeezed before tangling their fingers together, resting them on the table top. He exhaled. "She shouldn't have to try to convince me that I can trust her every time, so I write a letter to myself every day. She delivers it to me and answers questions when necessary."

"It's the damnedest thing I've ever heard," Lanie said, while absently running her finger around the rim of the crystal juice glass, producing a quiet warble. "I mean, Dr. Burke has no idea what trips the episodes or what brings you back?"

"That's one of the reasons for Rick's trip to the clinic," Kate explained. "We need to get to the bottom of this, find out the answers to those questions and more." She squeezed his fingers. "Babe, we're going to need to go soon."

"Yeah," he answered quietly. He looked at his family and friends and smirked. "I remember."

"Castle!"

Answering the various moans and grunts, he explained, "Things were getting a little too morose around here. It will be good, guys." He winked and he exited to the bedroom to collect his bag.


	4. Tenuous

_A/N – Wow! I appreciate you waiting on this so I could get post an update to 'The Courtship of Katherine Beckett' and get that one-shot, 'Here, There Be Monsters' out of my brain and published._

 _Thanks to everyone who has read and to all the reviewers, both members and guests who always have such complimentary and encouraging words to contribute._

 _This turned out to be a long chapter, mostly because of the format, but also because of the detail I wanted to convey. Feel free to read part and then come back to it. I know it's a chunk. Also, there are a good deal of time jumps from one day to another, back and forward. I've labeled them in the hope of eliminating confusion._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Blank Page**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Tenuous**

Kate rode in the new Buick and kept her head tilted toward the window, her long body curled up on the luxurious, leather passenger seat like a cat. The flowing scenery merged and blurred as it quickly came into view and even more quickly passed by. Indistinct shapes that might have been farms, animals or forests and fences sped by in a symphony of earth tones as the farmlands and rolling country side of northwestern New Jersey sped by her window. She wouldn't have seen it anyway had she been looking. Her mind was far away at a clinic and the possible hope and probable frustrations it signified. The sunlight dappled through the gaps of the tenuous leaves still on the trees that were saturated in an autumn palette and blinked a furious sunlit Morse code, fostering an urgent need deep within her to get to their destination that much faster.

She felt his hand at her elbow. He gave her a reassuring squeeze, again. The periodic gentle pressures, sometimes on her elbow, sometimes her shoulder, conveying encouragement and unfailing support were all that was needed to topple her tenuously dammed emotions. She drew in a stuttered, rasping sob.

"Damn it," Kate cried, angry with herself. She snatched a tissue from the center console.

"Do you need me to pull over?"

She raised her head and her eyes sought the crystal blue clarity of his. She shook her head and blew her nose, depositing the tissue along with the others in her pocket.

Raising his hand to her shoulder he squeezed, while keeping one hand on the wheel. She was right. They couldn't waste time. "What can I do for you, Sweetheart?"

Kate concentrated on taking in deep breaths. Once she regained control, she shook her head. "Nothing, Dad. Just get me there."

* * *

She and Martha had checked her fiancé into the Adler Clinic seven days ago. Although Alexis wanted to accompany him, he asked her not to. He knew it wasn't his fault and he knew that she'd been wonderful and supportive to him and to Kate, but he explained gently to his tearful daughter, who repudiated his claims that he felt weak and deficient because of his issues. He knew it wasn't fair to her, but despite her strong objections, she conceded after he confessed that he just wouldn't be able to cope if she were there to watch him submit himself to a mental institution. He wouldn't be able to find the courage to leave her. He'd also argued against Kate and his mother going along. Kate shut him down completely, unwilling to let him slink off to another unknown without her. His mother agreed at first, bowing to his need to protect her. Castle's celebration of two out of three ended abruptly by Burke, who reminded him that she was required to go along as next of kin since he and Kate were not yet married. Walking away alone from their loving embraces and brave, but trembling faces down the long, sterile white hallway, and all of its uncertainties and possibilities, had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He didn't look back.

Nevertheless, as difficult the separation had been at the onset, he'd been hopeful and eager to get to the bottom of whatever had been causing the periods when he'd been 'gone.' It was ridiculous, but Kate couldn't bring herself to say that he was suffering from some kind of dementia. She knew the clinical definition. She'd read all about the symptoms, causes and treatments. Castle did as well. In fact, he probably had a better understanding than she did. He seemed to be able to detach himself emotionally from the fact that he was speaking about his own mind. It helped that he approached it as a mystery to be solved. Kate couldn't seem to get past the twisted, charred, smoldering ruin of their life at the bottom of a ditch in Suffolk County. Whoever had taken him had done this and had yet to pay for their crimes. That fact irked her and cast a hazy pall over everything having to do with his recovery.

She received a phone call from him on the evening of the second day. He assured her that he was fine and hadn't blanked at all. The food, which was of course the first thing he reported on, was passable, but he had plans to take both his girls to a good restaurant as soon as he busted out of the place. Both.

There was an orderly who imitated Marty Feldman from Young Frankenstein as a joke when he'd first arrived. Castle immediately liked the young man and his sense of humor, and had taken to calling him Igor; with the long 'I' just like the character in the movie.

He said that they had run tests and more tests and had him wired to an electro-encephalogram since the third hour that he'd been there, right after all the physical tests and exams, and had been recorded sleeping, awake, exercising, writing and any other activities. For the first forty-eight hours he wore a cap of scalp electrodes as well as additional monitors on his heart and lungs and a few on his extremities anywhere he went. The remote, wireless technology delighted him and made him giddy like a kid at a candy store and couldn't wait to tell her about it. They could measure, not only his brain-waves, but also his neural reception to certain stimuli. He'd been so excited, he joked he was becoming Robo-Cop.

He had made the joke twice. She laughed the first time and frowned the second: instantly concerned.

Then he lowered his voice and said that he had to wait until they unhooked him so he could talk dirty to her. "Don't want the doctors' machines to record that…um…conversation, do we Beckett?"

"They're probably monitoring this phone call," she teased.

He groaned. "Mood killer, Beckett; such a mood killer. Have you been taking lessons from Ryan or my mother?" She'd laughed, recalling one intimate moment or another that they'd been interrupted previously.

He had been quiet too long. The man always chattered on about one thing or another, filling the empty spaces and lulls with his humor or especially for her, he liberally sprinkled his natter with provocative or sensual allusion.

"Rick?"

He drew in a long breath. She heard his voice catch as he swallowed. "I miss you, terribly," he confessed, quietly.

"Oh Babe, is everything okay?" She'd noticed a couple of things from their conversation that had her concerned. She noted them in her diary for Doctor Burke as she spoke to him, making her feel like she was speaking to a material witness in a case.

He drew in another deep breath and she heard him sigh as he blew it back out. "Yeah…yes. Just more tests tomorrow morning." His uncharacteristic longer pauses alarmed her. Finally, he sniffed and blew out a breath.

"Rick?"

"Zoned out for a minute. I should probably get to bed. I don't sleep well when I know they're watching. On the plus side, I understand that Igor wants to record my dreams this week."

"Rick? Are you…are you sure?"

"I'm good, Sweetheart. Give Mother my love, please."

She held her breath, waiting. Her concern caught in the tangled knots her tongue had become. She waited for him to include his daughter, but the correction never came. "I…I will," she stammered in the absence of anything other than his breathing. She heard a muffled knock on his end of the line.

"Damn, I have to go, Babe. Don't worry: we'll figure this out and I'll be home soon. Kate?"

"I'm here."

"I love you."

She smiled, despite the worry the conversation had given her. "Always," she affirmed.

Castle replaced the handset from the phone on the desk in the patient's lounge and looked up into the annoyed faces of Igor and a night shift nurse he'd dubbed Nurse Ratched. He smirked defiantly and stood on his own. "Why Nurse Joyce: is it bedtime? Are you here to take me to bed?" he leered.

The nurse pursed her lips and sighed. "Mr. Rodgers, you know you were supposed to take your sedative thirty minutes ago. We have to maintain a strict schedule. You want to get better, right?"

Castle sighed. He'd checked himself into the clinic having fooled himself into thinking it would be like sleepaway camp, but the professionals there were very serious about helping their patients and had very little sense of humor. He'd idly wondered if someone had removed their right frontal lobes, the area of the brain necessary to appreciate humor. He knew that now: where in his brain that everything happened or in his case, where it didn't happen at times. His main area of research had been the prefrontal cortex, which plays an important part in processing short-term memories and retaining longer-term memories, which are not task-based. That's where the doctors and technicians were also concentrating their exploration of his brain: he'd overheard them last night when a microphone from the monitoring room, which was used to convey instructions to the patients, had been unintentionally left on.

"Yes, ma'am: I do want to get better," he confirmed. Earnestly, he confessed, 'I had to speak to my fiancée. I'm sorry Ms. Fletcher," he apologized as contritely as possible gazing into the unpleasant mien of the woman. He didn't think she was a bad looking woman, but she wore an expression of one who had forgotten how to smile. It kind of made him sad.

Kind of.

The nurse drew her lips into a thin line and sighed exaggeratedly. She felt a migraine coming on. Standing with her hands on her hips, she indicated the hallway that led toward his room with her chin.

* * *

Kate distractedly worried her lip as she ended the call. She slipped off the kitchen stool and headed up the stairs. Alexis had stayed at the loft more often this semester than at her dorm. As she neared Alexis' bedroom, she heard the young woman quietly singing through the door, something deep and bluesy. Inhaling and pausing briefly to gird herself, she knocked.

"Come in?" Alexis' immediate response drifted over the respectful volume where she had set the music.

"Um…hi Alexis: I'm sorry to disturb you, but…"

"Oh, you're not disturbing me…at all." Alexis scrambled off her bed where she had been sitting Indian style with her books perched on her ankles and thighs. She thumbed the remote for the sound system and the music stopped. She wore a pale green off the shoulder thin hooded sweatshirt and lounging pants covered with glow-in-the-dark Green Lantern's lanterns. The pants looked far too big for her and by the way they bunched around the drawstring at the waist and that the fact that she had rolled up the bottoms of the legs, Kate suspected they belonged to Rick. She understood: she had slept in his dark blue Captain America tee-shirt since he'd been gone.

Alexis continued, "I'm working on an essay. Editing Dad's stuff is easier than editing and revising my own. Everything I write sounds like Rainman dictated it."

Kate chuckled and began rhythmically rocking in place. "I'm sure it's def…definite…defi…definitely not that…that bad." She glanced at her comforter. "There are four pencils on the bed. Four." She glanced at her bare wrist. "Uh oh," she droned, "fifteen minutes to Judge Wapner."

Alexis giggled heartily at that point and Kate took some pride in it. Up until then, as far as Kate had witnessed, Castle had been the only one to elicit that sound from his daughter.

"Thanks, Kate: I needed that." Alexis stretched, catlike. Like a rippling wave, Kate watched it progress from the tips of her fingers high over her head all the way down to her toes. She tilted her head and cracked her neck, despite the number of times Castle told her that doing that herself would only make it worse and suddenly wished for Castle's disapproving glare even as he moved in behind her, his strong fingers kneading her knots. She took a moment to squeeze her own shoulder and quell the creeping melancholy.

"Anytime," she said quietly as she smiled. Crossing to the bed, she sat on the corner, smoothing out the rumpled spread under her fingers. Intent on studying the intricate pattern made by the quilting she asked, "Hey, has…uh, has your Dad called you?" Her gaze slowly and reluctantly drifted up to seek Alexis' eyes.

Alexis dropped back to her nest by her pillow and sighed. "No." She smoothed a hand over her pants and fingered a lantern close to her knee. "I was hoping that he would be able to periodically, but I guess he has to…" Alexis mimicked air quotes. "Go dark." She grinned slyly and Kate was taken aback by how the simple expression could make her look so much like him.

"Hm," Kate hummed generically not agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Why? Have you talked to him?"

Kate inhaled again. She should have known that, like her father, Alexis would look beyond the initial question, dig deeper. The dilemma for Kate was whether she should be honest, which would probably worry the girl, or keep Castle's phone call to herself. He hadn't mentioned Alexis at all and there had been two times in their conversation that he should have, would have, without question before. It was as if he didn't remember her. Kate had hoped that he hadn't mentioned her, because he had already spoken to her.

"No…no, you're right: he must have had to go dark," she matched her grin even as she lied. Kate concentrated on her own fingertip's incessant need to play with a loose thread on Alexis' bedspread. She could feel her eyes penetrating her defenses. At least that's what it felt like: that and the room suddenly became very warm. She'd felt the same from Castle when he would gaze at her, his eyes were like lasers: bright and intense, seeing right through her: searching, seeking, and seeing everything. Alexis' were a shade lighter, but Kate could still feel the same penetrating scrutiny.

"Can I help you with your essay?" Kate brightly changed the subject and slid her knee further on the bed, pivoting to face Alexis. "Maybe proofread or assure you that you are not an idiot savant?"

"Okay…but let's get some hot cocoa. Dad always says that warm, sweet concoctions help his words flow." She grinned, unfolded her legs and hopped up, her ponytail swinging and bouncing. Crossing to the door, she held it open for the detective, reminding Kate of Castle once again as the red-head bowed her out the door.

* * *

"Tonight, if I dream up the next best-selling plot line, promise me that you'll record it, okay?" Castle joked to Igor.

The orderly frowned. "It doesn't work like that," he answered dully.

Castle rolled his eyes. _'Yeah, definitely a right frontal lobotomy,'_ he chuckled to himself as he followed the nurse, resigned to his fate. He felt like he should be marching and singing the flying monkeys' chant from _The Wizard of Oz._ "Oh-wee-oh, wee-oh-oh," he hummed in his deep baritone softly. Igor smiled behind him.

"It does record your wet dreams," Igor dryly whispered as he leaned into Castle's side, unheard by the less-jovial Nurse Ratched.

Castle immediately grinned and stopped. "Igor? There's hope for you yet." He sniffed the air and looked around. Someone's half-eaten take-out was on the nurse's station's desk. Something Asian and spicy: it smelled better than his meatloaf dinner had.

The orderly grunted and followed Castle and the nurse into the writer's temporary home.

"You know the drill," Ratched sighed.

He did. He took the cup containing the mild sedative and tipped the pills down his throat, as he did three times a day, followed by water and then went into the bathroom. When he reemerged having relieved himself, washed up and brushed his teeth, they waited for him with the monitoring apparatus, leads, clips and connecting wires that had to be attached to the electrodes already on various places on his body and scalp. The lights in the room had already been dimmed. He searched the ceiling through the indignity of the procedures.

Igor exited through a door that Castle knew led to a monitoring room. There was another bank of screens at the nurses' station. He heard his voice, which Rick noticed, took on a deeper, singsong quality anytime the orderly was in the booth. "Mr. Rodgers, please breathe deeply." The writer complied. "Good, now cough." Again Rick did as he was asked. "Hm, okay. Mr. Rodgers, please relax."

It was then that Castle realized that he'd been gripping the bars on the side of his bed. "Yeah, sorry: didn't want to tip out," he explained. He blinked and scowled as he looked around the room. He could have sworn that they had been on a boat.

He thought back to his conversation with Beckett and had the feeling that he'd forgotten to tell her something. Something important. He clenched his jaw and grabbed the bars on the bed again.

He felt his eyelids and body weighted down. It was a mild sedative, but stronger than an over-the counter sleep aid. He could almost remember…it was just out of reach. His grip loosened and his hands fell to lie alongside his legs.

"Al…Lex…ss," he murmured as he drifted, powerless against the tide, being dragged out to sea. He heard the roar of the motor sputter on the last of the gas and then die, leaving him bereft of sound save the sloshing of the blue green water against the sky blue paint of the boat and the occasional squawk of a seabird. The sun scorched his arms, face and feet, but he couldn't move, couldn't save himself. He could almost smell the tang of salt in the air. He should plug the holes again with…with something, but he was just so tired.

* * *

 _Day Six_

Dr. Simon Delozier watched the recordings of the video and monitor feeds again. He made notations on Castle's chart on the laptop. At first, he'd been disinclined to accept Carter's patient, but then as his old friend explained the situation he'd become intrigued. Richard Castle's case challenged everything he understood about dementia. The more he observed this patient the more he was convinced that, while Carter had been close, dementia was not what was happening to the writer. Especially not anymore.

He reached for his phone and dialed. "Good morning, Sherry. This is Simon Delozier; may I speak with Dr. Burke?" He paused, listening to Burke's assistant. "How long will he be? That's fine, I'll hold."

He watched the live video feed of the man strapped to his bed as he absently folded the corner of his notepad, making the fold crisp with his thumbnail and then opened the triangle, smoothing the crease and repeated the nervous habit while he waited. Most of his legal pads had perfect triangles missing from the bottom right hand corner.

* * *

Burke ushered the widow of a recently deceased police officer to his door. Mrs. Brennan had only been married to Officer Brennan for six months before he lost his life in service to the city. Burke was one of many psychiatrists the department kept on retainer and he saw numerous patients with ties to the NYPD, but the worst by far were the bereft, young widows. Thankfully, despite how dangerous their jobs were, only a small percentage of officers made that ultimate sacrifice.

He made some final notes and noticed his message light blinking. After listening to his assistant's message, he called her. "Put Dr. Delozier through, Sherry, if he's still on hold. Oh and have, um…" he consulted his calendar. He sighed and rubbed his eyes and bridge of his nose under his glasses making them pop up and rest on his forehead. "Jeez," he cursed under his breath. "Have Detective Slaughter wait, please. Assure him that he will get the full hour. Thanks."

Carter waited for the clicks and then greeted his friend, "Si?"

"Hi Carter. Sorry to disturb you on a weekday. I know your calendar is full."

"No need. Is everything all right with Mister Castle?" He tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his desk blotter.

Simon smiled. His friend hadn't changed since college in that regard. He cut right to the heart of the matter. "Actually, Carter. I was calling for advice."

Burke's eyebrows rose in surprise. "It's yours if I have anything worthwhile to give."

Simon glanced at the screen again. "Did you have any other techniques or therapies you used to…um, bring him back?"

"The hypnosis isn't working?"

"No: hasn't even touched it."

Burke expelled a forceful breath. "To tell you the truth, I don't have great results with the hypnosis either, but he mostly comes out of it on his own anyway. How long?"

He heard the other man sigh. "Going on three days."

"Three," Carter repeated incredulously, his voice losing its characteristic calm. He shook his head and breathed the number into the space above his desk as if repetition would make it more comprehensible.

"Yeah," Simon answered, feeling like he was admitting a failure. "I read in your notes that his fiancé had reported an episode that lasted for two days, but that was atypical."

"Everything about this case is."

"Agreed. While I'm on the phone, do you have time for a report on our findings, thus far?"

Carter checked the wall clock. His conscience warred with his curiosity. He should end the call and spend the next hour listening to Detective Slaughter rage against their forced association and rant about how one charge or another has been trumped up against him or how the system is a failure, only not in that exact word, but still one beginning with an 'F'. The detective was a master of restating his conspiracy theories and misdirected culpabilities. He should honor his appointment…he should…but what he wanted to do was to delve into the mystery surrounding Richard Castle and what Simon had discovered. "Hang on, Si." He pressed a button. "Sherry an emergency has come up. Please reschedule Detective Slaughter. I appreciate it." He chuckled to her response. "Yes, I will give you hazard pay."

He switched back to Simon. "Okay, I'm back." He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. "What have you found out?"

Simon inhaled. "Well, for starters; it's definitely not a natural or organic deterioration."

Burke opened his eyes in surprise. "Meaning?"

"I hesitate to draw conclusions."

"That's because you are a psychiatrist. What's your gut say? Is it an actual cigar?" Even though Burke's curiosity was palatable, he couldn't resist a little aside for Freud humor.

"Gut: hm, that's interesting coming from you Carter," Simon observed, ignoring the joke as he always did.

Burke raised his eyebrows. Maybe Simon had ignored the joke or maybe he just didn't get it. "Yeah, yeah," he conceded. The two friends had analyzed each other numerous times over the years and out of the two of them, Burke was less likely to listen to his feelings, preferring to stick with the facts.

"My gut, as you put it, tells me that he's had a procedure. Not a full lobotomy or resection and there is certainly no obvious evidence, not even on the MRI, but Carter: I'd stake my diploma on it. He has endured some sort of invasive, but well-hidden procedure."

Even though he rarely cursed, Burke whispered, "Shit. Has something turned up on the scans?" Burke had stood and was pacing the length of his desk.

"Something I originally dismissed as an abnormality. I had him scheduled for a positron emission tomography, but that was before this episode. In his current state of mind, it would be detrimental to attempt a test. There's also something else I'd dismissed originally, but given what I've discovered or suspect I've discovered…"

"What?" Burke stopped pacing.

"I had a visit from a man who said he was from the press asking after Mister Castle. He could have been a reporter and given my theories I may well be projecting, but Carter, he hinted at knowing things about Mister Castle's experiences."

"Shit," Burke repeated. "Like maybe his kidnappers? Do you think he's in danger? How did anyone even know he was there? He's on record under the pseudonym right? What the hell is going on?"

"As far as our patient is concerned?" Simon took a second to order his thoughts. "He's uncommunicative at the moment, but I believe it's by choice rather than a symptom. He has no idea of his identity or why he is here. He's…" Simon inhaled and exhaled. Burke could hear the frustration in his voice. "He's been…uh…somewhat aggressive. We were fearful that he could become more violent. As a precaution, we've had to subdue…"

"Violent? More violent? What the hell? He's never indicated any violent tendencies. He's mostly been lost or docile, ah hell overly emotional even or frustrated, but violent? No."

"He put one of my orderlies in the hospital," Simon said, quietly. "They've kept him for observation and Rodney will be okay, but still…"

* * *

When Burke arrived at the clinic later that night, not much had changed. He peered through the observation window of Castle's room. His patient, who currently dozed, restrained to his bed across the chest, ankles and wrists, had a wild look about him: his hair, which Burke had never seen out of place, was dirty and sticking up in multiple directions. He had several days' worth of beard growth. The room itself was in disarray with the meager appurtenances strewn about. Burke could not see him clearly in the emergency lighting since it was protocol to cut the power to a patient's room who had been proven a danger to himself or others.

Carter turned to Simon. "Three days?" he sighed. Simon nodded. "Has he slept at all? Eaten?"

"He's sleeping now." When Burke scowled, he added, "Okay he's dozing and he's been doing that periodically. We managed to hold him down long enough to administer thioridazine…" Carter's eyebrows shot up at the name of the powerful antipsychotic.

"Was that necessary?"

"And get him in restraints," Simon continued. "But he came out of it too fast, Carter: so fast, almost like he was impervious. And no, he hasn't eaten anything, but he's had the I.V. We managed to get bottled water into him."

Burke observed his patient again and couldn't help comparing Castle's current circumstance to that of a caged, wounded animal at a zoo. It made his heart ache. "May I go in?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," Simon shook his head. "I can have an attendant accompany you. I think, in this state, he would react fearfully."

"He's restrained. Let me go in and try to reach him. He knows me still, somewhere deep inside his psyche, maybe he'll respond."

"Okay, but I'll have Zac and Adam standing ready to assist."

"Your orderly in the hospital," Carter began, "Did Mr. Castle have a weapon?"

"No, Carter. He beat him unconscious with his bare hands."

Burke bit his lips as he considered that. He sighed heavily. "No time like the present," he said. "Our patient is hurting."

* * *

 _Day Three, Four Days Earlier_

He scrunched his nose. He didn't like the smell; the acrid, sanitized air burned his nose. Opening his eyes felt sluggish. He felt sluggish. He turned his head on the stiff pillowcase. He squinted at the reflection of sunlight shining brightly on the walls, but coming in the window in contrasting stripes. Bars on the windows, he realized; painted white and friendly, but still bars. _'Deceptive. Must be…'_ He shook his head. He couldn't remember his handler's name.

He scowled and raised his head. He was in a hospital or clinic. Oh he'd been sick; fever sick and then…and then…oh, he'd been shot. He rubbed his side and felt the scar. He was probably in the hospital to treat one of those. He laid back and closed his eyes; couldn't fight it even if he wanted to anyway. He wondered if he'd finished the mission. He was asleep before he finished the thought.

* * *

 _Day Four - Evening_

He opened his eyes.

"Hey there's sleeping beauty," the young man in scrubs joked. "Got sleepy there for a while." The orderly leaned over Castle to adjust a wire and lead. He looked down at Castle through his arms as he worked. "Are you hungry? You were out of it for a couple of days. Betcha you're hungry." He nodded.

He yawned and on the exhale he began, "Who…" He turned his head and realized he was in a hospital room. He swallowed and licked his lips. "Am I sick?" he asked, his voice rough from disuse.

"Noper," the orderly said, good-naturedly. "Just in for a few tests. Man, you must have been sleeping hard. Don't worry," he patted his patient's arm as he smirked. "I saved you the lime jello."

"Tests," he repeated.

"Yeah," he confirmed holding a cup of water to Castle's lips. Castle drank. "Do you want to try to sit up?"

"Oh…okay." He raised his head and then his body. A wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him. "Maybe not. I'm dizzy."

"Dizzy like, whoa: I sat up too fast and I've been sleeping for nearly forty hours or dizzy like I rode the Round Up at the fair seventeen times in a row dizzy?

"I think I'm going to be sick."

The orderly frowned. "Rode the Round Up dizzy it is then," he confirmed. He reached for the sick pan and pushed it under the man's chin just in time. He waited until he was finished and then cleaned him up. He gave him the rest of the cup of water to sip while he made a notation on the iPad he carried with him.

The lock tumbled and then the door opened. "It's about damn time," a woman, maybe a nurse grumbled. The woman had a pinched expression and he wondered if she always looked like that or if it was just because of him. She inhaled and exhaled dramatically. "Well come on. We've lost valuable testing time to your beauty sleep," she said scornfully. "Time to get up and get dressed," she said as she tugged on his shoulders. "Dr. Delozier will want to catch up on the testing schedule today."

"What?" He felt his eyes brim. "I…" he breathed heavily, panic welling up in his chest as quickly as the frustrated tears came to his eyes. "Stop…please. I don't…I don't know who you are."

The nurse stopped prodding him and really looked at him. She reached for his wrist. He pulled his arm back. "I just need your pulse," she assured in a calm tone. She looked over the patient's head to the orderly, who stood there in shock. "Any indication before now?"

"Um…just slow going. He reported that he was dizzy and he vomited."

"Did he call you Igor?"

Rodney scowled. "No, damn it, not at all."

"Get the doctor," she ordered and then turned back to the man trembling under her hands. "Oh and Rodney? Tell him that he's in the middle of a panic attack." She looked at her patient. He could be a sarcastic pain in the ass, Nurse Ratched indeed, and they hadn't warmed up to each other since he was admitted, but she wouldn't wish active PTSD on anyone. "Okay now," she soothed. "I need you to count slowly to five. Concentrate on my voice, Hun. Let's get that breathing under control. Inhale slowly through your nose." She checked his pulse again. "You're going to be okay," she reassured compassionately as she brushed his hair back from his forehead.

He tried to listen to the nurse, but he was frantically searching his mind for answers to his questions. Where he was; why was he in a hospital; and who he was. He was sure there should be more and they were lurking in that dark space he couldn't access, but those were at the top of the list.

Rodney burst back in through the door, startling their patient. The young man shook his head. "He said to work the attack protocol and get him calmed. He's in the middle of a violent emergency intake and will be here as soon as he can. He said to sedate him, if necessary."

The nurse huffed. "Okay, you stay here. Deep breathing, which he's struggling with and counting slowly. I'll prepare the meds."

Rodney nodded and when the nurse had relocked the door from the outside, he turned back to the man, hyperventilating on the edge of the bed. He swung his head from side to side. "I get it man. You just need to relax. Come on, count with me. One…shit…" Rodney's radio squawked high-pitched feedback that even had him flinching. Lifting the hem of his shirt over his left hip he reached for the volume.

Rodney didn't even see the punch coming. The patient landed an uppercut with his left fist, sending the orderly sprawling.

"Shit," he yelled. He inhaled as he rubbed his jaw. "Don't do that." He frowned as he worked his jaw, opened and closed. "I need you to lie back." He gently pushed on Castle's shoulders, but he resisted. Castle blinked as if he were trying to clear his vision. He swayed on the bed, out of breath. "Come on, now. Let's work together, okay? Calm…just breathe."

In all of his years working as a psychiatric attendant, Rodney had never seen a look of such conflict. Mr. Rodgers wore a look of someone who was lost and fearful, but also with determination, defiance and intimidation. Rodney physically backed away before he realized his mistake. He hadn't yet restrained the patient. If he had the time to be honest with himself, he would have realized that he was still in shock. He'd been briefed on Mr. Rodgers' episodes, but he hadn't read anything about the man becoming aggressive.

Before he knew it, Castle leapt off the bed and straddled Rodney's chest. The shocked orderly lost consciousness in the initial tackle. The nurse and two orderlies controlled him well enough to get him off of Rodney. In the fracas, Castle stumbled and fell against the footboard of the hospital bed.

* * *

Simon ran down the hallway, having been alerted about the altercation. He looked in the glass window in the doorway. "Oh, God," he breathed.

He opened the door slowly, was overcome by the sick smell. The pan that Rick had used had been dumped in the scuffle. "Richard? I know you're confused. It will all be all right." He approached the unsteady figure pressed into the corner of the room. "I'm Dr. Delozier. I'm just here to help. No one's going to hurt you." He grimaced when he saw the bruise on Castle's cheek. "I mean, more than we already did."

He raised his head from his hands and watched as the man cautiously made his way across the room. The man, a doctor he said, paused by the foot of the bed.

"Richard? I'm sorry you've been hurt. Would you like to get off the floor so we can get you cleaned up?" Simon kept his tone quiet and even.

Castle tracked the doctor's every move, but his eyes held a faraway look. He inhaled and seemed to focus. "Okay," he struggled to stand. Simon moved to help him and held his breath. Castle was a big man. Simon hadn't truly perceived how much bigger than he was the writer until that moment. He had at least three inches on the doctor and his physique was one of a man who consciously worked on his strength, not muscle bound, but stronger and more toned than he would have expected from a writer. Simon imagined it helped the novelist to be in good physical shape while working with the NYPD.

Castle didn't threaten or look like he had any inclination to harm. Simon had him sit down on the bed. "May I ask you a couple of questions?"

"Yeah," he responded in a dull, flat monotone.

Dr. Delozier examined Castle's injuries and bandaged his knuckles. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Um…" Castle's head snapped to face the doctor, a move that startled the psychiatrist. He jumped back a bit. Castle scowled.

"It's okay. Can you tell me where you are?"

Castle blinked and reluctantly moved his gaze from watching the doctor to survey the room. He shook his head.

Simon could see the panic in his eyes. "It will be okay, Rick."

Suddenly Castle felt exhausted. Seeing his patient's shoulders slump, Simon laid him back on the bed and nodded toward the door. The nurse and two orderlies entered. Between the four of them, they had him buckled into a five-point restraint quickly. "Joyce?"

The nurse efficiently set up an I.V. port and stood back as the doctor administered the sedative into the saline.

He watched as consciousness ebbed slowly from his patient like fog from the hot pavement after a summer's cooling rain. He drifted; his eyelids were impossibly heavy, but slurred, "Loc…" before succumbing.

"I'll want to schedule that PET scan as soon as possible," he ordered as they walked out of the room. "Do you have any idea why he became violent?" he asked his nurse.

"No. Rodney was talking to him and joking, like they do. We didn't even know anything was wrong until he said he didn't recognize us. I left for the sedative and while I was gone was when he attacked Rodney. When I came back he seemed to be spouting gibberish, stuff about Thailand, an airport, conspiracies and spies." They stopped at the nurses' station. "He's always seemed so docile, a smart aleck maybe, but I've never had reason to fear him. What happened?"

"You know that Mr. uh…Rodgers has experienced recurring, sporadic amnesia. The theory is that when he was abducted, his abductors did something."

"Did…something?" she repeated, her chocolate-brown eyes wide.

"Yes Joyce: altered his brain either by surgical means or drug therapy."

"But why?"

"Well now; that's the question." He watched Castle's face on the video monitor. The drug should have had him completely under and dreamless, but Castle gave every indication of REM sleep. He pursed his lips and frowned. "Unfortunately, it's not our question. We need to find out what and how to fix it."

* * *

 _Day Six – Late Night_

"Rick?" Carter Burke looked down at the man he'd come to know through his own therapy, but before that through Kate Beckett's, admittedly biased, but colorful descriptions of him.

Castle opened his eyes and his gazed zeroed in on Carter. He tested the strength of his bonds.

"Don't pull on the restraints; you could hurt yourself." Carter smiled reassuringly. "Do you know who I am?"

Castle eyes darted to the door and the observation windows. Carter tilted his head as he watched Castle who shook his head in response.

"That's okay. Do you understand me?" he asked to which he received a short nod. "Good, good. I'm going to try to explain why you don't recognize anything." Carter pulled a small notebook from his jacket breast pocket and began to read. "Are you with me?" Castle lifted his head, nodded slowly and appraised the hospital room and his bindings. Burke began, "Your name is Richard Castle. You are forty-three." Castle dropped his head back to his pillow and lay on the bed, impassively listening. "You are a best-selling novelist." His eyes narrowed. "Your mother, Martha, is an actress and lives in New York City. You have a daughter, her name is Alexis and she is a junior at Columbia. You have been married and divorced, twice." Rick scowled. "You are currently the fiancé of Kate Beckett. She is a homicide detective. Seven years ago you started following her for research for a series of novels. You became a civilian consultant with the NYPD, and eventually you evolved into her partner. In due course, you and she fell in love. You were supposed to be married last May, but you were abducted and missing for two months." Castle frowned and opened his mouth to interrupt. Burke held up a hand and continued. "You were found unconscious on a small boat on the ocean. When you woke you had no recollection of the two months you had been gone. Since then you've been experiencing sporadic episodes of amnesia or dementia. We have theorized that your periods of amnesia have something to do with what your abductors did to you. That's why you are here at the Adler Clinic. To determine the cause and remedy, if there is one, for your condition."

Burke watched the bleakness of all the information inundate Castle's visage. It surprised him to find that Castle truly did look like the drowning man the novelist had described.

Castle's breathing and heart rate accelerated. He swallowed, licked his lips and asked, "Am…am I crazy?"

Burke pursed his lips and huffed through his nose. "While I don't generally approve of that term, no Rick, you're not crazy. You are facing exceptional challenges: challenges which, to be honest, I don't know how to help guide you through. That's why you're here. This clinic specializes in dementia and memory difficulties."

Castle remained silent and seemed to be observing the drop ceiling tiles from his position on the bed. His hands, which held the restraint cuffs taught, clenched and relaxed, repeatedly, rhythmically. A single tear spilled and etched its way down the side of his face.

Burke inhaled and softened his tone. "Rick, what do you remember?"

He swallowed again. In a small voice he recounted, "I hurt him."

"I've heard from the hospital," supplied Simon, who had returned during Burke's discourse. "Rodney will be fine. He has a knot on his head and a slight concussion, but Rick, please don't assume the guilt for that."

"I did it, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"But?"

Burke cut in, "I think what Dr. Delozier is trying to say is that anyone, when confronted with questions that can't be answered, might panic and react in atypical ways."

"No one believes you to be violent under normal circumstances."

The tears flowed freely and silently from the corners of Castle's eyes. Despite their assurances, he shouldered the responsibility for his outburst. He closed his eyes. The man hit the floor and he found himself on his chest, his fists ready to strike. It was all he could remember. Sometimes he pictured a younger man, but other times, he could see an older man, one with a mustache under him. That and snatches of a boat, the jungle or somewhere equally miserably hot and humid, he remembers the mosquitoes and the gunshot and smelling ozone and something spicy. It all swirled around in his otherwise empty head like the pasta letters in alphabet soup. Periodically and randomly, you would see a word that made sense, but mostly it was only jumbled letters.

* * *

Carter sat at the nurses' station, watching the monitors, monitoring his patient. There had been no change. Hypnosis had utterly failed. By all accounts, he had been cooperative since he checked in and had completed a battery of tests: physical, intellectual and psychological. He had undergone the monitoring. Simon had compiled an extensive file on Castle already. He'd had one-on-one interviews and truly had the beginning of a profile.

Then he went to sleep and it all went to hell.

* * *

Carter pulled onto the freeway; he'd been no help to Simon in his opinion and had to be back in the city in the morning. His mind kept going over everything he knew about Richard Castle as he drove on autopilot. Pulling into a rest stop, he parked, put his head in his hands, shut his eyes and thought. Why the devil couldn't he figure this out? There was something: something that made this happen. It wasn't happening on a whim. Kate. He'd call on Kate, go over the notes from their own sessions, and then compare them to the file from the clinic. There had to be something common that would trigger this response. If Simon was correct, and Castle's brain had been altered, something might have been programmed to cause the episodes.

* * *

"Beckett," she held her phone between her ear and shoulder, while she wrote down the information from dispatch and nibbled on a spring roll held delicately between her fingers of her other hand.

"Kate."

She looked across the bullpen and felt the warmth and breath leave her body. "Yeah, I've got it," she said into her phone by rote and placed it on her desk. "Dr. Burke. Is everything all right?"

"Can we talk?"

"I have…" She held up the sticky note with the details of a new body drop.

"I've got it Beckett," Ryan said as he grabbed the post it note from her hand. It was a die cut note in the shape of a castle. The pad was in her Christmas stocking amongst a stocking shaped packet of red gummy bears, a chocolate police badge, purple fur-covered handcuffs and a miniature stuffed baby elephant dressed in a purple bow.

"Ryan," Beckett called and he spun back around. "Send me the details and I'll catch up later."

Esposito swung his arms into his jacket. "We've got this, Beckett. Take care of your boy."

"Thanks, guys," she called before leading Burke to a conference room.

"Can I get you a coffee?" She stared, unblinking at her therapist.

Burke's fingers were steepled in front of him, as she had seen so many time before. He tightened his lips against his teeth and tilted his head minutely, assessing her state of mind and emotions before he spoke. "Rick has had an episode."

She huffed out a breath and sat down. "When? I spoke to him, uh, five days, maybe six days ago."

"Four days ago."

"Is he okay?"

"Yes."

"But?"

Burke sighed.

"Dr. Burke what else?" she raised her voice in exasperation

He glanced out the door. "He hasn't come back, yet. None of the known techniques has worked. He's restrained…"

"Restrained?" She raised her voice. "Like he's in a straightjacket?" Her eyes grew wide and wild with panic.

"No, no. Not many places use those anymore. He's restrained to his bed."

"Why?"

Burke sighed. "Kate, has Rick ever shown any tendencies toward violence?"

She forced out another breath. "No, never…" She closed her eyes. It wasn't true. She could still see his face, devoid of everything except his fury. That man didn't resemble the Castle she knew. "Yes."

"What?"

"When Alexis was kidnapped." She closed her eyes and could hear Douglas Stevens' screams as Castle tortured the man into telling him where his daughter was.

"Those might be seen as extenuating circumstances," Burke said gently.

She stood up and paced behind the conference table chairs. "What did he do at the clinic?"

"He attacked an orderly. We don't know why."

"Oh God," Beckett sank to the chair next to her. "Is the orderly okay?"

Burke swiveled to look at her and nodded, "Just some bumps and bruises; a mild concussion."

"Just some…Was this a mistake?" She stood again and returned to her pacing. "He's never been violent when he's been gone. Frustrated and confused: sure, but never violent."

"I don't think sending him to Adler was a mistake, but Kate, I'm trying to piece together what might prompt him to these episodes."

"You mean a trigger," she caught on and resumed her original seat.

"Yes."

Recalling a movie Castle made her watch where a character was triggered to become a weapon by a ridiculous commercial's jingle, she shook her head. "He wasn't watching TV, right?"

Puzzled, Burke shook his head. "No…why?"

"No matter. I think what we need is to bring him back and ask him what he remembers from just before his episode."

"I concur, but easier said than done. As I've said, we've tried relaxation and hypnosis. Simon has even tried different anti-psychotic drugs to no avail." Kate noticed in the harsh late morning light reflected from the mirrored high rise across the street that the doctor's normally impassive face showed signs of strain and worry.

"With all due respect, Dr. Burke, none of that can compare to me."

"There's no guarantee that seeing you or speaking to you will work. Nothing has been obvious or even predictable in this case. It's so frustrating," he growled, dropped his gaze and contemplated his fingers that had been tapping out a steady rhythm on the worn conference table's veneer. He folded his hands and pursed his lips.

She wondered if he gathered the problems of the world and kept them, bagged and tagged and organized, if she knew Burke, and carried by him forever or if he had a way of freeing himself from the burdens others had conveyed to him.

"Let me tell my Captain and check on my team and then, if you're available, we'll go to the clinic."

"Oh, I'm available. I've cleared my calendar. I'll stay as long as he needs me." He was concerned about his patient, true, but Castle's case was extraordinarily fascinating and appealed to his lesser exercised academic side as well.

Gates consented to a leave only after the current case had been closed. Luckily the boys had it wrapped by the early afternoon with minimal assistance from Beckett. Burke decided to drive back as soon as he left her so he could continue to help Dr. Delozier in any way possible.

Packing a bag, she called her dad to cancel their brunch.

"I'm coming with you."

"What? No, Dad; that's not necessary."

"Katie, I don't want you driving in this state. I can be there in a half an hour. Please wait for me."

"But Dad…"

"Please, Katie. There's not usually a lot I can do for you; not a lot of ways I can help. Please let me drive you."

She inhaled and recognized her heightened pulse and respirations. She swiped under her eyes and swallowed. "Okay, Dad. I'll wait."

"Good. I'll be right there."

* * *

"Dr. Burke," Kate called after she cleared the metal detectors and pushed through the double doors leading to the observation wing of the clinic, her father right at her back. "Can I see him, now?"

Burke's eyebrow climbed. No matter how long he knew her, she always found a way to surprise him. He shifted his gaze to Simon who checked the video feed and nodded.

"It's good to see you again, Detective. I wish the circumstances were better." He looked down at his hands.

"No one knows what's going on." She laid her hand on his forearm. "Doctor Burke assures me that you're doing your best." She smiled, but then concern etched her features. "Your orderly?"

"Rodney? He'll make a full recovery."

"I am so sorry, Dr. Delozier."

"Nothing to be sorry for…" His eyes drifted back to the video feed. Castle sat watching out the window. He sat to the side, almost covertly, as if he didn't want anyone to see him from the outside. "Come on, Detective," he side-nodded to the monitor as he stood. "I'll introduce you."

Castle turned from his vigil at the barred windows at the sound of keys in the lock. _'Locked in,'_ he thought, _'at least I'm not cuffed to the bed anymore.'_

"Rick?"

Castle eyed the man who had identified himself as one of his doctors. He didn't feel sick. "How's Rodney?"

Simon hesitated. "He'll be fine. You still recall what happened?"

Castle only slightly rolled his eyes as he huffed, "I remember."

"And, before that?"

"There's nothing." He closed his eyes. "No, that's not right. I remember a dream. Well maybe it's a dream, maybe it's memory. There was a boat. It ran out of gas and the sun was so hot." He closed his eyes. "Spice…something spicy. I can smell it."

"Rick, this is Kate."

A woman had come into the room while he had his eyes closed. Castle opened his eyes and looked at her. She was a beautiful woman, although she looked tired, haggard. He stood and waved his hand. "Another doctor?" he asked cordially, but her face looked as though he slapped her.

"No," Simon sighed. He had hoped that the familiar face would trigger something. "This is your fiancée."

Castle felt the cold, dolorous tendrils of guiltiness creep up his spine as the blood drained from his face. "I…I'm sorry," he murmured, dropping his eyes from the hurt smeared on her expression, stroked there by his own callous brush. It had become difficult to breathe.

"It's okay, Rick." She placed a hand on his forearm.

He jumped back a bit. He hadn't noticed her getting that close to him. _'What the hell is wrong with me,'_ he thought, wondering why he didn't hear her. Even if he'd been distracted, wallowing, he normally caught things others missed.

The woman tentatively smiled at him, searching his face and eyes. Searching, he realized for any spark of recognition. He wanted to. He wanted to erase the hurt and pain he saw in her.

Suddenly he smiled. Kate's heart leapt: he looked at her with recognition, as if he'd met and recognized an old friend on a crowded street corner, waiting for a crossing light or wedged with a hundred others in a subway car, its lights blinking, you catch a glimpse and identify someone in the fleeting light.

"You're the detective," he declared. She smiled brightly only to dim like water douses a fire as he continued, "Dr. Burke told me."

She couldn't hide her disappointment, although she tried.

The smiled dropped from Rick's face. He didn't want to hurt her. His impulse was to hold her. To tell her that it would be all right. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," she dismissed his concern with a wave of the hand that had rested on his arm. She shrugged and stuffed her fists into her jacket pockets.

He turned to her and cupped her elbows. "No, I don't think it's okay. I may not remember you, but I do know one thing." He waited until she looked up into his eyes. "I don't want to be the cause of that look on your face." She nodded, but didn't trust herself to speak. Castle grinned. "It's close to supper time, Detective. I think we should talk. Can I interest you in some lime jello?"

* * *

 _A/N2 - I will post new chapters to 'Martha's Heart' and 'The Victims' next and then I will be back to this._

 _Thanks for reading._

 _GM_


	5. Expunged

**_A/N – Hello again,_**

 ** _As ever, I am so grateful for all readers. I get so excited when I see that graph bar rise. Thanks to those of you who have taken the time to review or comment publically or by personal message. I take each and every one of your thoughts to heart and I have to say that I truly believe that I have the best reviewers on the site: your remarks buoy me, your observations challenge me and sometimes you've found nuances that I had forgotten. This fandom and this writing community have been wonderful additions to my life and every time I post, I look forward to interacting with you._**

 ** _Please see the note on the bottom of the page for some cool news._**

 ** _Please enjoy._**

 ** _~GeekMom_**

* * *

 **Blank Page**

 **Chapter 5**

 **Expunged**

Kate had pulled herself free from the tenuous grip Castle held on her elbows. She sought a cushion of space and searched for a task for cover her retreat. Needing to do something, anything, she pressed the call button next to his bed. Castle didn't seem to take offense by her needing the space.

Guilt overwhelmed her in the moments of intense silence, while he turned back to his lookout through the window and she anticipated the usual interruption they'd suffered if ever alone. She shook her head and with an incredulous huff, she chuckled, drawing Castle's brief attention. The ironies of their situation weren't lost on her in that typically they couldn't be with each other without someone they knew bursting in on them, his mother or Ryan: Ryan was a master, but here they were, granted certain seclusion and they had no use for it. The ironic icing on the universe-messing cake was that Castle, who understood irony, didn't recognize that the elusive literary nymph had invaded their lives in the least. Dr. Burke appeared in the window of his door and she exhaled the breath she'd held since leaving home. He unlocked it and slipped inside easily.

"Kate? Rick?" he greeted, his eyebrows raised. Kate could tell he anxiously looked for evidence of a change in Rick's condition.

She looked bleak as she met the doctor's eyes and shook her head in a silent answer. She believed as he did that her presence would be a magic bullet: that seeing her would unlock his mind. "We'd like to be able to talk someplace more…comfortable," she began and Burke's gaze flitted between her and Rick. "Rick says that he's hungry. Is there a cafeteria?"

"Yes, but…" Carter looked toward Castle again. The man stood with his hands jammed in the pockets of his robe to hold it close because they'd had to take the robe's belt.

"He's not violent, Dr. Burke." Kate asserted, reading his mind. She took a step closer to, but not touching Castle.

Burke pressed his lips against his teeth in a line. "I…I know that…absolutely…" He held his hands up in agreement, but then he shook his head. "…under normal circumstances, but…" He let his objection drift and sighed.

Castle cleared his throat. "You two know that I'm standing right here, right?" He received a silent apology from each of them. He raised his hands and took a step toward his bed. "Look, I get that you can't endanger anyone else…" He swallowed nervously and crossed his arms over his chest. Burke noted his patient's body language. Here was a man literally holding himself together. "Just…do what you need to. I don't want to hurt anyone."

Kate had inched away from him, but when he offered to restrain himself, she found her resolve. She stepped next to him and unreservedly laced her arm through the crook of his elbow. "No, you wouldn't, Rick," she assured.

It was Castle's turn to disengage. He dropped his arm and Kate's along with it. Kate turned her head sharply to his for an explanation and she saw the uncertainty, the remorse and fear in his eyes and in the way he held himself, that he might be violent again. Trembling, he was terrified that he might hurt her. "I appreciate that you want to protect my feelings," he shook his head as he proceeded, "but honestly, all I know about myself is what the doctor and you have told me and what I can remember. By those accounts alone," he held up his hands, surrendering and stepped away from her as he ensued, "I'd say I was extremely violent. I didn't miss your needing space from me a moment ago, Detective."

He side-nodded toward Kate, but avoiding her, addressed Burke, "I'm not even sure if she should be in here, but I am hungry. Can I have something to eat here? I mean us: can we, both of us," he said, waving his hand between him and Kate as he carefully looked at Burke, "and…I don't know… maybe restrain me somehow?"

"Rick," Kate began to protest in a small voice.

Her voice drew his eyes and he had to notice her then. He understood then. From her hopeful, but hopeless countenance at war with itself, her wilting posture: he was sure that this woman had never backed down from anything, the overwhelming fear in her eyes. He understood exactly what his circumstance did to her. He inhaled loudly, as if the breath would give him a barrier, some way to protect and cocoon her. He shook his head and again put more distance between them. "Neither one of you can't guarantee that I won't flip out again," he argued and then turned back to Burke, "nor can I."

Burke sighed and nodded, making reassuring eye contact with Kate before he left the room to make the arrangements. Castle went back to the window and continued his silent vigil, his back held ridged, to her. Kate stood abandoned, marooned by the solitary island that the man she loved had become: present, nevertheless far away and separate.

"Rick?"

Swinging his head, he inhaled sharply and then bit his lip. "Can I just…" He turned toward her, but didn't look at her. "Just give me a minute to come to terms with…well, with everything…please?"

She studied him as he held himself isolated and stoic. He was right: he hadn't had a minute in the room alone since before she arrived. "Of course," she said, knowing full well the power of solitude. "I'll…I'll be just outside."

Castle heard the nearly silent click of the doors automatic lock; he inhaled as if he couldn't get enough oxygen and exhaled as if he'd just put down an enormous weight and slumped down onto the visitor's armchair, utterly exhausted, his head in his hands and shut his eyes.

* * *

Jim Beckett picked up another outdated copy of _Psychology Today_ and started flipping through the glossy pages absently. He kept one eye on the hallway into which his daughter had disappeared and the other on the comings and goings of people he could only assume were patients. They'd wander in and out of the waiting area, stopping to gaze at the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall in the corner of the room and then leave the area again, seemingly with purpose, but then wander back in a few moments later.

"Dad."

Jim looked up at his daughter's call. He stood and dropped the magazine back to the pile of well-read periodicals on the laminated wood-grain coffee table in front of the sofa. "Is he okay?" he asked, not waiting for her to enter the waiting area fully. "Does he…" He tilted head his, trying to get a read on his daughter. "Can he remember?"

"He's okay. No, he hasn't come back yet." She dropped her head wearily and Jim stepped closer, wrapping his little girl in his arms. He half hoped she'd call him Daddy and lean on him as long as she needed. "He's hungry," she said into the crook of his neck. She shook her head and taking a step back, folded her arms over her chest. "Doctor Burke said he will have food brought to his room, but…"

"Katie?" Jim wasn't surprised that she'd pulled away from the support. An intrinsic part of her had always been her self-reliance.

She rolled her eyes and pushed her fingers through her hair. "He'll be restrained. I want you to come back to see him…only if you want to," she quickly amended. "But you need to know…he doesn't know me and won't know you. The only memories he has are from the last few hours."

Jim inhaled deeply and steadily gazed at her. "I want to be there for you, Katie… and for him."

* * *

They waited by the nurses' desk until they would be allowed in his room. After Dr. Delozier and Dr. Burke emerged, both looking as if they'd had to shoot Ol' Yeller, Kate smiled reassuringly at both men whom she believed were doing their utmost to help and then squeezed her father's hand which had been present in hers since they moved to the corridor.

She knocked softly on his door after an orderly unlocked it for them.

Castle answered with a soft "Come in."

She turned the knob and pushed on the heavy door revealing Castle sitting at a table, set for three. He smiled hesitantly and started to stand out of pure physical habit; a long, ingrained habit that had no doubt been instilled by his mother along with the rest of his exceptional manners, but was halted by the restraining belt around his waist. Kate inhaled deeply and realized she was crushing her father's hand.

"Rick," her father stepped forward. "You're looking good, son." Castle considered the kind man and then flicked his gaze to Kate.

She found her voice, "Rick, this is my father, Jim Beckett."

Castle affixed a cardboard smile in place and held out his right hand to shake Jim's, but was again halted by the restraint system. Kate hadn't noticed the cuffs on his wrists in her initial assessment. They were long enough to allow him access to the place setting on the table directly in front of him, but not for much else. She glanced down and saw the cuffs at his ankles as well. He could have refused to have them there and saved himself the humiliation of the restraints, but he hadn't.

"Well, I guess I'll just wave," he said sardonically, a small, more natural smirk coming to his lips. "I hope you two like Jello and bad coffee. Truthfully, I don't remember how good the food is," he confessed, his eyes guardedly downcast while fiddling with the paper napkin by his plastic water cup. He looked up as Jim and Kate sat at the little round table that the doctors must have had brought in specifically for this use. There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation just before the orderly brought in three hospital meals. Rick didn't have any dietary restrictions, so the meal wasn't bad for what it was: mass produced hospital food, although Adler wasn't a large institution, it was still an institution.

Jim and Kate had been instructed not to bring up topics of conversations that hadn't already been introduced to Rick through Burke's synopsis. After an awkward silence, Jim complimented Castle on his latest book. Castle scoffed and remarked that maybe he would read it, which lead to another painful silence. Kate decided to steer the conversation to safer topics and filled Castle in on the comings and goings of his mother and daughter until he asked to see pictures of them. Jim told a couple of water-cooler stories about his law practice in the moments it took Kate time to find pictures of his daughter and mother. He didn't know them and he sighed.

All in all it was a pleasant, albeit plastic and stilted, meal together, during which they ignored Castle's restraints and his obvious lack of recognition or reference. His eyes, which had been downcast, staring at the considerable amount of food left on his plate suddenly lit up. He smiled shyly as he dabbed his mouth with the napkin before tossing it over his leftovers. Castle chuckled, "I kind of feel like I'm meeting the parents for the first time." He turned to Kate and in the evening's first spark of enthusiasm, he eagerly asked, "Have we done that? I mean, have we introduced our families? Um, Dr. Burke said that I have a mother and a daughter. He didn't say anything about your mom, Kate."

It was Kate's turn to study the paper napkin in her lap. Castle sought Jim's eyes. The older man took his daughter's hand, but gently smiled at Castle. He cleared his throat. "Katie's mom…um my…Johanna was killed…uh, murdered, fifteen years ago. You helped Katie bring Johanna's killer to justice."

* * *

"Richard, I need to change your bandages." The nurse cautiously opened his door, held it for the burly orderly who accompanied her and stood back as the electronic lock clicked into place. He'd been moved to a higher security room after his earlier violent episode. He hadn't shown any further indications, but the argument was that he hadn't shown any violent proclivities prior to him putting a man in the hospital either.

Rick sighed. He was too tired to be a danger. "Who's your shadow, Ratched?"

"Rick," Kate admonished without thinking.

Joyce's head snapped up when he called her Ratched. "Are you starting to remember?"

Rick squinted and chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Um, no. I don't think so. Why?"

"You called me Ratched."

"Oh," he chuckled. "I thought…I'm sorry." He raised his hands as much as he could. "Someone else referred to you that way earlier. I honestly thought it was your name."

Joyce pursed her lips, but didn't comment further. She nodded at the orderly and she moved to unlatch his bindings. "I'll need the two of you to wait outside, please," she directed Kate and Jim. The conversation had disintegrated to tedious questions and one worded answers and comments since Jim had dropped the bombshell about Johanna. It was as if the information had burst the fragile bubble surrounding their tentative détente.

"Oh, but…" Kate stumbled over her words. "I didn't think that we…or at least I would have to leave yet."

"That's up to Richard."

"They can stay," he said quickly, but quietly. He shrugged. "Apparently, I'm not bashful," he quipped, raising his eyebrows.

"Okay then. Get ready for bed," the nurse directed. He stared at her blankly. "All of your personal toiletries are in the bathroom." She pointed at the door on the far wall. "Go," she barked, exasperatedly.

"Okay, okay," he said as he stood, rubbing his wrists before he started across the room.

"Did you take the sedative on your meal tray?"

Turning back, he grinned cheekily. "I don't remember."

"Very funny."

"Um, I'll go back out to the waiting room," Jim offered, pushing in his chair. He turned to Castle to bid him a good night. Castle smiled, but it didn't have any depth: the kind of smile you'd see on a polite stranger on the street as they hurried past, making eye contact, but not much else.

Kate let go of her death grip on the back of her own chair and squeezed her dad's arm and he pulled her into a hug. "It will work out, Katie. I can still see Rick in there," he whispered in her ear. Smiling wanly as her dad exited, she agreed. She heard him chuckle, "Nurse Ratched," as the door closed.

Castle returned a few moments later and cautiously scoped out the room before making his way to the bed. He already seemed sleepier than he had earlier.

He slid onto the edge of the bed, swallowed and carefully examined the ceiling as the nurse busied herself, opening his pajama shirt, hooking up wires and leads to rivets on adhesive patches attached to his body that Kate hadn't previously noticed. Kate drifted back to the opposite side of his bed. She tried to comprehend and discern the machines and lines, but her brain was jumbling the mass into a spaghetti of tangled ropes. She felt constrained and restricted just looking at them, she could hardly imagine being under all of it. She wondered how he got any sleep at all.

"Scary looking, huh?" He was looking over his shoulder at her.

"Hm? I'm sorry, yeah, I guess. It's…does it hurt? Are you okay?"

He tilted his head. "No, it doesn't hurt. Not so far. As for okay, I guess I'm as okay as a man with no memory can be. At least I haven't maimed anyone today." He leaned on the edge of the bed, his eyes drooping and he yawned loudly.

The nurse raised her eyebrow, but continued her duties. Castle smirked and Kate thought it remarkable how much of his sense of humor was a part of his basic personality.

"I should probably go," she said haltingly and gestured to the door.

"You don't have to," he shrugged and yawned again. The nurse cleared her throat and Castle asked, "Does she?"

The nurse smiled. "Well, based on your previous reaction to the sedative and how it seems to be affecting you tonight, I'd say she'll probably be grateful for the quiet…" He stuck out his tongue at the top of her head. "…or bored in a couple of minutes anyway." The nurse lifted her eyes and instructed, "Say goodnight, Gracie." He stared blankly at her. Pop-cultural references were just as foreign to him as his name. She shook her head. "Just lie back and say good night."

Castle scooted up to the head of the bed, which was raised. Kate pulled the blanket up over his waist. The orderly who up to that point had been observing and was doubtless only there to intervene if their patient became aggressive, came forward and began to attach the wrist restraints.

"Oh," she placed a gentle hand on the orderly's. "That really isn't necessary anymore, is it?" Kate appealed. "He can barely keep his eyes open."

"Sorry, ma'am. Procedure," he intoned flatly and continued. Kate stood back. He'd strapped Castle's left wrist and had moved to his right. The nurse began to draw blood from his left arm.

Kate suddenly felt overwhelmed and out of breath, indignant on behalf the man lying in the bed.

"Kate," Castle slurred. He held his right hand up and she stood nearby and grasped it. "It's okay. They're help to here and from what I understand; I came here for their help. Maybe it'll be better in the morning." His eyes closed and she thought he'd succumbed to the drugs and she began to pull away toward the door, but then his grip tightened and his eyes fluttered open again. "Hey…hey, Kate?"

"Yeah?"

"Since you're m' fiancée, should…shouldn't you kiss me?" He grinned. The nurse's eyebrow climbed her forehead again.

Kate was immediately back by his side. "You usually don't…" She drew in a steadying breath and her fingers found his. "When you have an episode, you…don't like…you'd rather I wasn't…"

"What?"

"You don't want me to be affectionate. You usually close yourself off."

"During an ep—episode."

"Yeah."

"Okay." His eyes slid closed. Kate doubted he knew what he was saying.

"I can still kiss you," she blurted, afraid that she might have missed her chance.

His eyes opened, half-mast and he smirked. "Okay." He puckered his lips comically, even as his eyes slid shut again.

Kate smiled and leaned over him and gently touched her lips to his. This hadn't changed: his kiss and his lips felt the same, even if it was a modest kiss. She still felt his love, somewhere deep inside and so far hidden, but not gone. That one simple, G-rated kiss restored more in her than she could have hoped or even understood she needed. She smiled again and on impulse, pushed his bangs up and off his forehead.

Castle opened his eyes barely and she saw the love there. "Oh, Rick, Babe: I love you, no matter what, remember that."

He smiled and sighed contentedly, dropping finally into sleep. She backed and headed toward the door. She heard his voice and stopped. "Hey, Kate? I love you, too you know…always."

* * *

After Kate Beckett practically floated down the hallway to the observation station where he and Dr. Delozier were seated, Burke smiled. Kate had been his patient for many more years than Castle had and to see her normally glass-half empty, cynical view of the world buoyed by such a small act was heartening. He bid her goodnight and she left to join her father. They'd stay the night at a local hotel, she said, especially given the events of the past few moments.

"Well," Burke said as he rubbed his palms together.

"You know it could be nothing," his colleague reminded him.

Burke pursed his lips. "Come on, Debbie Downer. You can't deny the change that came over him after she went in there."

Simon made a face and shook his head. "We don't know if it was simple recognition or just a man reacting to a pretty woman or her perfume. It wasn't exactly the transformation we were hoping for."

Burke glanced at the monitors, where the image of a sleeping Richard Castle was captured on four screens, all different angles, all showing illustrative physiological readings and brain wave activity. "I think it's a good sign," he declared while standing and stretching. "Now, show me what you found."

"Let me start the polysomnography and actigraphy tests and we'll move to my office." Burke nodded and for the first time since he'd arrived at the clinic, he had hope. Glimpses of the lost Richard Castle surfaced through the drowning man's miasma.

* * *

An orderly walked the hall, occasionally peering into the rooms, as if he were looking for a particular patient. He touched his ear a moment later and softly murmured, "I've got visual confirmation." He noted the location of the room and headed back in the direction he came.

"Understood." Jackson Hunt switched the comm off and sighed heavily. He looked at his partner who was in the back of the van and shook his head.

"I know, Jack."

"The lengths…" He shook his head. "I've made sacrifices to make sure he has been safe his entire life. Hell, now that he knows about me, he hates me…"

"As you wanted," she reminded.

"Yes: that's what I wanted," he railed. "It's what is necessary, damn it. How the hell did this get away from us?"

They both watched as Ramirez, the agent inside, calmly sat at the terminal and began hacking into the clinic's database. "He's very resourceful," the petite red head offered.

Jackson frowned. She smirked and added, "Like his dad."

"I'm not his dad. I…I may have fathered him, but I could never…" He sighed heavily again. "Fucking sacrifices," he muttered.

"Regardless, that apple didn't fall too far…"

"More like the nut." He smirked. Rita recognized the same expression on his son's face during their surveillance of him.

"Yeah," she agreed quietly. "What's our next move?"

"I'm not an expert, but if I were to guess, I'd say he needs to be fully restored or this," he indicated the monitors as one by one sprang to life, showing his son sleeping, as the agent on the inside hacked the feeds.

"Does that mean an extraction?"

"Probably," the spy spat out as he shook his head. "I don't think we have a choice. It will just keep getting worse," the father finished on a sigh.

"I thought the procedure was routine and science behind a wipe, irrefutably proven at this point."

"Not for this. That son of a bitch erased two months." Rita's mouth fell open and a puff of air escaped. She too, had never heard that length of time having been sucked out of someone's mind. "Two fucking months!" her husband continued, working himself and his hypertension up. She purposely touched his arm and blew out a long breath and he, as she knew he would, followed suit. Calmer, he said, "The procedure ordinarily is an action simply used for isolated events, like in a witness situation or a betrayal." He looked down. "Not only did he scrub the op, but also whatever the hell happened when Richard went off grid. We need to nail the bastard."

"I agree, but we've been chasing whoever is running the organization. He's a ghost and a slippery one who doesn't expose himself, Jack. He doesn't make mistakes."

"Except, I think he may have when he did this to Richard."

"If he remembers, they'll come after him."

"Remembers what, though? What in hell did he get mixed up with?"

"Maybe he discovered something and then made a connection. Richard was always good at that: making those connections, seeing the whole picture. Like when he followed Sophia. He was a good asset when he was active." She thought for a moment. "Hey Jack, you don't think that this has anything to do with his stint with the company ten years ago, do you? He couldn't have been aware of when he learned them, but on many occasions he used a lot of those skills for Beckett, too."

"Yeah and she treated him like a buffoon," Jackson groused sullenly.

A broad smile spread across Rita's face. "I don't think it was because of his weapons proficiency. He played the part. You know that," she soothed as she massaged her husband's shoulder. "And then he got the girl." She tousled his hair, which he hated and then placed a kiss on his temple and whispered, "Yeah, that apple didn't fall far from that tree either."

Jackson's jaw worked as he watched the monitors and shook his head again. "A lifetime of God damned sacrifices…for nothing," he muttered.

* * *

He felt like he was under water: deep and dark, everything in slow motion, but oddly, he could breathe. He struggled for the surface, where there would be clarity and light.

Castle inhaled deeply: one that cleansed his lungs of the murkiness and then he opened his eyes. His gaze zeroed in on the beautiful woman sitting next to the bed.

"Hey," she whispered close to his side.

He licked his lips and frowned. Kate held her breath.

"Kate?" He made a quick survey of the room to confirm he was still in the clinic. "What? Are you okay?" He scowled and tried to sit up. "Why are you…" he faltered, "Oh God…" The past day's events crashed around him, he crashed back onto the bed. He blanched and in his eyes she could see the heart-rending pain that the clash between the memories he'd experienced during the gone time violently merging with his permanent memories wrought.

She stood and ran her hand down the side of his face, toying with the stubble he'd grown in the past three days. She'd seen this torturous route before, every time she'd witnessed when he came back. The mental process physically assaulted him. "Oh God, Babe, are you okay?"

He rasped, "Yeah," but he squinted as if the light hurt. He tugged on the restraints and peered down the bed stupidly. "Oh no, Igor…"

"Shh, he's fine. He'll be in today."

"But…" he said while at the same time she asked, "Are you…"

"Yeah," he blinked and a tear escaped and dribbled from the corner of his eye. He pulled on the wrist restraint, growling when he couldn't even wipe his own face. "God damn it! Why the hell can't we figure this out? It's so frustrating." He sighed heavily and she reached up cupped his face with her hands and gently removed all trace of what he considered a weakness with the pad of her thumb. Rick looked at her and angrily huffed. "Sometimes I wish I just went the whole way, you know? I wish it would be one way or the other."

Kate suddenly understood his drowning analogy. Truly, she couldn't breathe, the weight and pressure were too much. Catching her breath, she whispered, "No…no Rick: don't ever…I never want you to be so upset, but I don't want you not to remember. We have a history: a life together that's more than…"

"That's not…I'm sorry, Kate. I'm so sorry, Sweetheart." Frustration produced the thoughtless confession and frustration prevented him from comforting his fiancée. "God, can't I have these off?" He tugged on the cuffs again.

Kate stood up hearing the whirs of the electronic lock. Drs. Delozier and Burke entered with cautious smiles. The doctors were followed by a nurse with a kind face, who immediately approached Castle and began taking a series of vital stats. A lanky orderly strolled into the room to which Kate didn't pay any mind until she heard Castle groan from his bed. Her eyes found Castle's, which held nothing but shame and remorse, and then moved to where he stared. Kate exhaled. Rodney. Both of his eyes were black and blue, mottled with maroon and that sick greenish yellow. A cut above Rodney's left eyebrow matched the cut on Castle's right knuckles and his nose was swollen and taped.

Kate opened her mouth to speak: to apologize or, most likely, to protect Castle, but the young man stepped to Castle's bed and smiled. Unfortunately, because of his injuries, an awkward grimace was the closest approximation to a smile he could achieve. Despite that, Rodney stuck out his hand and held Castle's gaze. "Dude, no hard feelings—okay?"

"No," Castle swallowed as he inventoried Rodney's face. "Shit," he huffed and closed his eyes. "I'm so…"

"Dude, you were not you, okay? Look, it happens." He grimace/smiled again. "I'm just happy that you're a big dude, because if Mrs. Hoberknacker went off on me again, I'd never get my chops." He patted Castle's arm and began to unbuckle the cuffs. "She's little, but she's mean when she's off her meds."

"But, I…" Castle tried to interpolate.

"Nope," he shook his head as he worked. "It's done: water under the bridge or over the dam or whatever the hell cliché my grandma used to say. Now, let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

"That's an idiom."

"What did you call me, man?"

Castle gasped and started to apologize and explain. Rodney smiled and said in his best Igor imitation, "Don't mind me, master: it's just good ol' Igor pulling your leg." He released the last of the restraints ad helped Castle stand, literally pulling on his leg and then making sure the chuckling writer was steady before he guided him to the bathroom. After the door was closed Rodney exhaled fully, looked up, grimace/smiled and winked at Kate, before following the nurse through the door.

"Kate?" Dr. Burke pulled her attention to him. The two doctors stood at the foot of Castle's bed looking as if they were the cats who got all the cream. "We're excited by our findings."

"And our opportunities," Simon added, bouncing on his toes as he smiled.

"I take it that Rick is over the episode?' Burke asked as he nodded toward the bathroom door.

Delozier lifted his head from the iPad the nurse had given him. "At least that's how it appeared on the monitors."

"Yes, he is," she paused and bit her lip, distractedly. It unnerved Kate every time she remembered that he and as a result, she were under constant surveillance. She sat at the round table she, her dad and Rick had used the prior night for supper. "Why did it last so long this time?" Kate knew she sounded whiny. She didn't care. She just wanted her fiancé back intact and permanently.

Burke smiled kindly. "I know this has been rough on you."

She scrubbed her hands down her face, clearing the cob webs and then she absently combed her fingers through her hair, twisting it into a loose chignon, impossibly held in place with a rubber band from around her wrist. "No, no it's been harder on him."

Delozier, who distractedly chomped on the cap of his pen, looked up. "Actually, Ms. Beckett," he corrected, "we believe that since Rick has no memory of what he is missing, whereas you do, it just might be easier on him." He pointed the pen at her. "You should see Dr. Burke for separate counseling once we have Richard situated."

"Situated?" She looked back forth between them, question and panic on her face. The doctors followed her to the table.

Annoyed, Burke scowled. He knew Kate better than to dangle bits and pieces of a situation in front of her. It would only piss her off not to be given the full information. He understood Simon's professional zeal, but sometimes his bedside sucked. He drew his shoulders back and sidestepping his friend he spoke to Kate directly. "I'd rather wait for Rick to join us before I explain what we've discovered, if that's okay."

Kate closed her eyes and let her head drop. She inhaled and then exhaled, slowly.

"Are you counting?" he whispered as he sat next to her. She nodded as she raised her eyes to his.

A small hidden smile lit up Burke's eyes and curled the very edge of his lips up. It really couldn't be classified as a smile, but Kate knew him well enough that letting the expression peek through was a major disclosure, directly opposite from his normally passive deportment.

Rick came out of the bathroom, looking and feeling much more himself.

"Good morning again, Richard," Dr. Delozier hailed loudly and cheerfully. "How are we feeling today?"

Castle halted and just stared at the doctor, his jaw working, but to his credit, that was his only reaction to the doctor's use of the royal 'we.' It really ticked him off and although Burke wasn't prone to using the loose term, he knew how it affected Castle. Burke rolled his eyes. He also knew that when his longtime friend teetered on the edge of a breakthrough, he tended to become excited and gave him a pass.

* * *

"So, if I understand you correctly: you believe that someone purposefully…um…'cut'...into my brain and 'erased' two months of my life for intentions yet unknown?" He took a sip of the coffee Rodney had brought with his breakfast tray, but the rest of his meal remained untouched.

"Yes, that's what we have discovered."

"How?"

"Very sophisticated equipment. Your word, cut, isn't exactly correct. It appears to be a combination of high frequency light and sound…"

"Light? Like lasers?"

"That's science fiction," Kate scoffed. "That's a Men in Black, flashy thing."

Rick shot her a quick grin. "As cool as that sounds, I'm not having nearly as much fun as they did in the movie with it."

"Yes, lasers…and focused soundwaves similar to LRADs."

"LRADs? They're used in exigent situations for crowd control. How…" She shook her head and frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

Delozier was already shaking his head. "There's been aural testing in relation to brain development and damage for years. It seems that the process has been tightened, focused and made specific."

"Here's the problem: It appears that whoever did this to you had a very specific goal in mind, but your mind is trying to heal itself," Burke sighed, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.

"Is that why he has the episodes?" Kate's grip on his hand grew tighter with every revelation.

"We believe that when the injured part of his brain works to recall, it's blocked by newly created neurons that are acting almost as sentries, preventing your access to those memories."

Rick exhaled. "My own brain is causing the episodes?" he asked incredulously.

"Well…yes and no, in a matter of speaking." Delozier stated.

Castle's breathing picked up and he felt a tightness in his chest. He leaned his left elbow on the table and held his forehead in his palm, massaging his scalp.

He opened his eyes. "How can I fight myself?"

"We don't want you to fight yourself, Rick," Burke asserted.

Delozier held up his iPad, which displayed a brain map. Kate's breath caught when she realized it wasn't just any brain map for teaching: it was Rick's. The doctor "What we're hypothesizing is that the neural network surrounding the area in question," he highlighted the prefrontal cortex. "This...in the prefrontal cortex, we believe that this was the area of the focused laser and sonic stripping. The ANN is the guards or sentries which were artificially implanted."

Castle's jaw dropped and he stared at the image. Kate nudged his right hand in hers. They'd held together tightly since the doctors began their reports. "Babe?"

Burke continued where Simon left off, "We want to correct the damage that the artificial neural network is causing. We want to remove the ANN and let your brain heal naturally." He exhaled. "Now, you need to understand that there is a likely probability that you may not recover your missing time."

Castle slumped in his chair and stared bleakly at the tabletop.

"But," he added. "We have every indication that once the ANN is removed, you'll no longer suffer these episodes."

Castle swallowed in an effort to moisten his dry throat. He stood, dropping Kate's hand and stalked to the window to watch the rain rivulets on the glass through the bars. "I still won't know what happened," he murmured quietly.

Burke stood and walked over to his patient and stood behind his right shoulder. "Maybe, with time and therapy, we can rebuild some of those passages that were taken. Maybe, eventually, you'll get that back, but in the meantime…"

He licked his lips, but his focus remained on the water on the pane. "In the meantime, I won't be causing an upheaval in my family's life every time I wake up."

Burke looked over his shoulder at Kate, who was as tightly wound as a spring, coiled and ready to jump. He admired her control. She had worked hard for many years and he now saw her effort's fruition. He nodded his head and she calmly walked over to her fiancé.

"Castle?"

"Whatever I got into," he began quietly, "whatever was done to me or whoever it was that took me, purposely damaged my brain and then implanted a network to make sure I never remember those two months?" He shook his head, breathing shallowly; he blanched as the implications hit him. "Holy shit!"

Kate and Burke grabbed the swaying Castle by the elbows, guiding him to his bed. Simon brought water and called for a sedative, which Castle refused.

Kate bit her lip and Castle reached for her as he laid back. He squeezed her hand. "I'm good…I'm okay," he assured, but his face still held no more the color than the storm clouds outside his window.

Burke took his pulse while Delozier flicked a light in his eyes.

After Castle regained some strength, Burke asked, "Can we continue or do you need a break?"

"A break," Kate interjected. She jumped up from the edge of the bed to face the two doctors, blocking them from him more effectively than a left guard protecting the quarterback's blindside.

"Kate," Rick breathed. She turned to look at him. "It's okay. Let's find out how we're going to deal with this: the options, treatment and…risks."

"Can't we just…I don't know…It's all happening too fast." She kept her gaze on the leather cuffs still attached to the side of his bed, but held on to his left hand tightly.

Rick's eyes tracked to Burke. "Can we have a minute?" The doctor nodded and the two exited the room. He tugged on her hands, forcing her to look at him. "Too fast? Sweetheart, this has been happening for too long. Kate, we need to get this behind us. It kills me knowing how much I'm hurting you, how much I have hurt you, and that I might cause you more pain. I can't live with that. Not if there is something we can do about it."

"They cut into your brain."

"Yeah," he sighed. She watched as his eyes skated around the room, but they did not really see anything there. She'd watched that choreography before when he walked the pathways of his mind to solve a puzzle or plot point. His mind was everything to him and when she grasped that it was essentially at war with itself, it boggled her own. "But now we know why the episodes happen. We can address it and fix it or, at the very least, control it." He breathed out and she lifted her eyes to his. Tears threatened and he was trying to regain his composure. "Babe, I have to try to fix this."

"But what if they do more…"

Castle's alarm klaxons had been sounding out that very warning since Burke suggested correcting the problem. It meant brain surgery and when they learned more, he was certain it would not be as non-invasive as the stripping with the lasers and sonic had been.

He looked down at their clasped hands and tilted his head; a smile tugged at his lips. She was wearing her engagement ring. "It's a chance I have to take." His eyes climbed her body beginning from her fourth finger and found rest in her gaze. "I absolutely cannot continue to live like this." He lifted his hand and held the side of her head, threading his fingers through her locks. "I can't put you, Alexis or my mother through any more of it. I've done too much of that already."

"We could try to work it out…like the letters you wrote to yourself. We could do that again."

"It's a lot of work to convince me that you love me every day, over and over again. I won't make you live like that anymore."

"There's nothing I can say?"

He smiled. "I don't think so love—not to change my mind anyway. You can always tell me that you love me and even if I don't remember, I'll know it because that's not in my mind Kate, that's written on my heart."

* * *

The next morning Castle waited in a conference room just outside of Dr. Delozier's office. He was wearing his own clothes, had showered, shaved, and had been prepared to meet new doctors. Rodney waited just outside the door, in case he needed anything. The door was locked. They were still under orders to handle him as potentially dangerous. He didn't blame them. Burke had explained that those tendencies may very well be linked to the trauma his prefrontal cortex had suffered. Not only was that the area of the brain responsible for processing memory, but there were numerous studies correlating the condition of the lobe, or it's deficiency, to violent behaviors. He sipped his coffee and stared out the window at a landscaping truck parked on the perimeter of the grounds. He briefly wondered why they would be working in the rain.

* * *

Jackson Hunt sighed and rolled his eyes when he identified the man approaching his van. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

The man knocked on the back panel door and tilted his head to where he knew the camera would be. Narrowing his eyes, he ordered, "Let me in you asshole."

Jackson pursed his lips and after a moment of debate, he released the lock.

* * *

The conference room door unlocked and Castle turned and walked around the table. Kate walked in first and immediately gravitated to his side. She held his arm and stood closer than she would in a regular business meeting so he took advantage of her nearness; he drew her in front of him, tilted her head and kissed her. He kept it wholesome, but he didn't want to; he wanted normalcy. He rested his forehead on hers until they heard others join them.

"Rick," Delozier introduced the women who'd accompanied them into the conference room as he claimed his spot at the head of the table. "This is Dr. Marilyn Breaux. She is the best: one of the top neurosurgeons in the country." He stretched his hand out to the slender woman with the striking and unsettling sharp blue eyes. She looked at him with fondness, as if she were greeting an old friend and Rick wondered if he'd ever met her before, but didn't recall.

"Dr. Breaux," he said cordially as the woman firmly gripped his hand.

"What?" She self-consciously combed her fingers through her hair.

"Nothing, just…it's your hair. I have a two to one win/loss ratio with the redheads in my life."

She smiled and he noted it was a little crooked, as if she were keeping a secret joke. "Oh, this is my colleague, Dr. Rebekah Hooper."

Another tall, striking woman entered and he offered her his hand, but she made a repulsed face behind the horn-rimmed glasses that made her chocolate-brown eyes look enormous. "No, I'm sorry, love. I've seen too many infectious diseases passed by contact to touch other people." She held up her hands in apology. She was followed by Burke who noted that Kate placed her hand on Castle's left arm and he covered hers with his right hand.

"That's okay," he said immediately, his charming smile lighting his face. He pulled out a chair for Kate and then one for Dr. Hooper. "Allow me."

"Thanks, ducks."

"Are you from London?"

Dr. Hooper smiled over her shoulder at him in return. "Why yes, yes I am."

Castle tugged on his right ear and grinned as he resumed his seat next to Kate. He waggled his eyebrows. "East End?"

"Oh gawd: a very long time ago. Not many people can hear the region anymore." She beamed at him.

Dr. Breaux rolled her eyes. "I guess we can rule out any adverse effect on your hearing. Rebekah, please?"

* * *

"Why the hell wasn't I contacted?"

Jackson Hunt wasn't used to being interrogated. He didn't like it. He didn't actually like interrogating either. He much preferred his way. Find the bad guy and kill him. His way left little room for negotiation or manipulation. "Because, Jenkins: you're an asshole."

"Fuck!"

"No thanks."

"Jack," he exhaled. "He's my asset."

"He's my son."

Henry shook his head.

"I…I've never been able to…" Jack took a deep breath. "Look, your guys screwed him up. I'm just going to unwind him."

"My guys?"

"Oh, shit. Don't give me…"

"Jack, I had nothing to do with the wipe."

Hunt narrowed his eyes. Jenkins was a top notch operative, he could lie and lie without detection, but something in his earnestness made Jackson believe him. "Who the hell did it then?"

Jenkins leaned forward in the chair Rita had occupied only moments before, his elbows on his knees. He exhaled through his nose and swallowed, nervously. Jack tilted his head and squinted, assessing the man. "We…don't know for sure." He could hear his friend ramping up to ream him out, so he held up his hands and slid back. "There's an investigation: a quiet one. Jesus, we think it's a big player. I don't know what Rick got into after he left Thailand, but we lost him. By the time we caught up with him, he'd been wiped and fucking shot. We secured him in our wing at Anaheim General until he'd healed and then I brought him back east, where we set him up until he recovered enough of his memories that he could get home. I couldn't exactly just drop him off on his stoop."

"He was found in a freaking boat in the middle of the fucking ocean."

"Yeah, he took off. He ran down to the dock one night screaming about Beckett. I fired warning shots, but he was already too far out."

"So you just let him go?"

"Jack, you know I couldn't give chase. He would have been in so much more danger, if whoever did this saw us together, causing a scene. Every idiot with a credit card has a fucking camera phone these days. It was only a matter of time."

"Just…" Hunt stood and stalked the small delivery van. "You fucked up…"

Jenkins grimaced, but nodded. "I'm here to help." Hunt frowned. Jenkins nodded toward the surveillance screens. "Shit. I wish even one of my doctors looked like Rita or Hayley and Castle has both, lucky bastard."

Hunt shot him a look and grunted, "After Hayley lost Rick in L. A., she felt…ah, dreadful, was her word, and pledged to assist us in fixing this cluster fuck as best as we can."

"Is Beckett in?"

Jackson shook his head and growled, "Hell no."

"Don't you think she should know?"

"Nope," Jackson sighed and idly played with a knob on the control panel. "No I don't. We think that she's the reason this was done to him."

* * *

 _ **A/N2**_

 _ **Recently, a group of Castle Fan Fic Writers was able to interact more personally on the Castle Fan Fic Stream Con. This was organized and run by Griever11to the detriment of her sleep, her nutrition and I fear, a bit of her sanity. All told, it is 30+ hours of fun, interviews and questions from all your favorite Castle fan fic authors.**_

 _ **If you haven't had an opportunity to watch, please check it out. (Replace punctuation, which is in bold and italicized with the actual punctuation and remove the spaces for the links to the Stream Con videos) I hope FF allows the following, but if it doesn't, you can look it up on twitch tv.**_

www _**dot**_ twitch _**dot**_ tv _**slash**_ castleficstreamcon _**slash**_ profile _**slash**_ highlights

 _ **And, finally a special shout out to Perspex13, my bud who shared the hour and made the process that much more fun.**_

 _ **This is our interview.**_

www _**dot**_ twitch _**dot**_ tv _**slash**_ castleficstreamcon _**slash**_ v _**slash**_ 80955519


	6. Purged

_A/N - Hello!_

 _I'm back and getting back into a rhythm with my writing. Thanks to everyone who has found this, read, reviewed and commented. I especially love the readers who question. The questions make me take a step back and ask myself tough questions about the plot and change my perspective. A_ _s_ _you will see,_ _Castle does that in this chapter for_ _his writing, as well. This is an invaluable tool in my growth as a writer. Thank you._

 _I'll keep it short this time. I hope you enjoy and are still here for the ride. I think we've just reached the top of the chain-driven roller coaster ride. Hang on!_

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

 _Please read the special announcements at the bottom of the chapter._

* * *

 **Blank Page**

 **Chapter 6**

 **Purged**

Castle tapped his fingers on the table as he listened to the four learned people in the room discuss, plan, plot and debate over what was the best way to proceed. They debated procedures, both tried and theoretical, on how best to proceed as if they were discussing some procedure in a textbook on some unknown, unnamed college student willing to submit for experimentation for beer money. But the subject wasn't some unknown: their discussions pertained to him, his memories, and his life. He felt like he was watching the game from the sidelines: detached, like an odd out-of-body experience, a death dream, or a bad acid trip, at least as his writer's brain would conceive a bad acid trip. Was there a protocol or best way to proceed with fileting and the dissection of a brain? His brain.

"Shit," he said as he rose, released Kate's hand, and walked to the window again. The rain was heavier now, like his mood.

All conversation ceased as the object of the discussions, stood unmoving on the surface, but restively as he stared out the window, the absurd van a focal point in the storm.

"Rick," Kate came to his side and her fingers, hesitant to touch him at first, found rest on his shoulders. He was tense and she began to knead some of the stress from his muscles. "Are you alright?" she asked into the planes of his back, too softly to be overheard by the others in the conference room.

He sighed, but kept his vigil on the landscaping van. A man approached the back and knocked, an action which Rick thought was odd enough, but after a moment, he climbed into the back. Castle waited. His brow furrowed as he waited for something to happen, anything: the van to start up and drive away, the man to get back out with tools… _'Tools: huh.'_

"Dr. Delozier?" he began absently, his mind still formulating theories. "Why are you having landscapers work during this weather?" He slowly drew his gaze back to the interior of the room. "Do they always work in a downpour?"

Simon lifted his head from the iPad where he was furiously and desperately looking up any neurological precedent pertaining to Rick's injuries. He lifted his head slowly out of the mire of research. "What? What was that?"

Rita as Breaux furrowed her eyebrows, glanced at Hayley who lifted her role's eyeglasses and cleaned them as she shrugged.

"Why does it matter, Mr. Castle?" Breaux redirected. "Isn't the most important thing figuring out what happened to you and how to fix it? I had heard that you could get distracted easily, but, given your immediate circumstances, this is surprising."

Castle glowered as he tilted his head and turned his body back toward the conference room. He observed the people gathered there from his sideways view. He literally practiced changing perspectives when he observed people: from tilting his head, as he just did, to moving closer, almost invasive at times, or further away, to changing his own location so he could observe people from a different angle. He no longer attempted to view the world upside down since he slipped from the monkey bars at a playground he'd been at with Alexis when she was six. A concussion had put an end to that particular viewpoint. He felt like maybe a different perspective would put everything right and make everything make sense. At that moment, everything was wrong, jumbled, out of place. They made good points and had postulated profound, seemingly erudite opinions, as if they had knowledge and experience, but taken upside down, it was rote, like a play or manuscript or the Wikipedia page on brain dissection, not an ounce of inspiration. Their plan sounded virtuous, but if you looked at it from a different perspective, it was askew. Totally cockeyed and now, this: knocking the story even more out of alignment, like a misstep or missed line in a play.

"From whom?" he asked quietly, righting his head.

"What?" Rita blinked.

"From whom did you learn that I can get distracted? Have you consulted with Dr. Burke or Dr. Delozier specifically regarding me before today?" He narrowed his eyes as he advanced on her. "Have you spoken to my family, my fiancée," he spun and indicated Kate, who shook her head. "Hmm: maybe my publisher or agent? Maybe you just read it somewhere?" He turned his back on the spluttering doctor. "Dr. Delozier: are you having landscaping done at this very moment?" he demanded.

Simon, unaccustomed to switching gears so quickly, looked at Castle then shifted his gaze to the women, who admittedly he'd just met in person. He had read Dr. Breaux's papers, but had never met her or even seen a photograph.

Kate watched Castle grill the doctor and fought the urge to stop him. She glanced at the van. Castle often saw things others missed. She stepped forward, surreptitiously guiding her fiancé out of direct line of sight of the van. She turned to the one person in the room she knew they could trust. "Dr. Burke, I don't think these women are who we think they are."

* * *

"Damn it!" Hunt growled.

"What?" Jenkins crowded him at the monitoring station.

"They've been blown," he snarled as he threw the headset on the console. Hunt stood and grabbed an umbrella.

"What?" Jenkins leaned over the control panel and studied the video feed through narrowed eyes. "How? Not the doctors: even I could see that they were trusting."

"No, not the damn doctors: your asset noticed the van. Damn it."

* * *

Kate instinctively moved in front of Castle, putting herself between him and the unknown quantity of the stunned women still sitting at the table, but urgently communicating through eye contact.

Simon stood, but the woman he thought was Dr. Hooper suddenly had a gun in her hand. "I think you should sit back down, doctor." She bobbed the gun in her hand, indicating his chair. Simon sank slowly, shaking his head.

"Who the hell are you?" That was from Castle who had moved closer to the table, next to Kate, protecting her as well.

"It's not what you think," Breaux sighed. "Damn it, Jack. We have to come clean."

"Who is Jack?" Beckett asked, looking around the room.

"We're not here to hurt anyone, really love," Hooper cooed, her tone and manner incongruously clashing with the semi-automatic still in her hand.

"Says the woman with the gun," Castle scoffed. "Did you do this to me? Are you here to finish the job?"

"Okay, we all just need to take a breath. Richard, Kate, please sit down," Breaux implored.

There was a knock at the door, but when all the occupants looked at the single pane of glass, it was empty.

Breaux stood and grimly smiled. "I'll get that." She moved to the door and stuck her head out. She sighed and swung the door open the whole way, ushering in two men.

Castle recognized the first as the man who got inside the back of the van a few moments earlier and then the second came through the door after whom, Breaux closed and locked it. "Son of a bitch…"

"Don't speak about your mother that way, son."

The older man had an arrogance to him, Simon noted. The younger looked upset for a second, but it was quickly replaced by a mask of indifference.

"Hu…Hunt?" Kate spluttered. "You're behind this? You did this to him?"

"Now, don't go jumping to conclusions, Kate, even though that's part of the reason we're here today."

"Kate? Rick? You know these men?" Burke asked, uneasy with the intruders, knowing the kind of shit both Castle and Beckett got into.

Castle, his anger evident, barked, "Kate had nothing to do…"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Hunt raised his voice above the din, commanding, yet dismissive. "Can we just sit down and talk?" He pulled out a chair and rubbed a hand down his face the same way that Kate had seen Castle do.

Burke spoke up, "Rick, Kate—I take it you know these people?"

Castle swung his head from side to side and sighed heavily. He took a chair opposite the chair the older man had taken. "God," he whispered. "He," Castle jabbed his finger toward Hunt, "is my father and nothing good ever happens when he's around."

"That's not fair," Hunt defended.

Castle shook his head and stared icily at the man. "True, though."

Breaux sat next to Hunt and looked back and forth, between both the fuming men. "Rick, to be fair, you've only seen him twice in your lifetime and…"

"The first time, my daughter was kidnapped because of him and the second, he used me to hunt down and murder a rogue agent." Castle narrowed his eyes at her. "And just how the hell do you know about any of that?"

Kate took the seat next to his. She reached for his hand and could feel the anger and hurt radiating from him. "Castle…"

Castle shook his hand free of hers as he turned to her, his eyes widening. "You too?"

"No not me, I'd never do anything to hurt you," she declared. "With the exception of him," she indicated Hunt, "I don't know who they are."

Hunt rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, but with a quick slap of her hand on his and the fire in her eyes and he was silenced by Breaux. Even though he couldn't trust her, Castle admired her in that moment.

"My name is not Breaux. I only assumed her identity to gain access." She shifted her line of vision. "To you," she added somberly. After taking a breath the woman continued, "This is not Rebekah Hooper, either. This is Hayley Shipton," she indicated her cohort, who had put the gun back wherever it had come from and half-heartedly waved. She is a freelancer, not associated with any one agency. This is Henry Jenkins," she continued holding her palm up in front of the younger man. Kate's head whipped up to look at him closely. He had changed his hair color and shaved his beard, but he definitely was the man she met at the trailer in Massachusetts while investigating Castle's reappearance. The red head continued, "He and Jack both work for one of the lettered agencies. My name is Rita; I work for another company, but I am a member of the same task force as these three."

"Task force," Rick repeated. He kept staring at Jenkins and squinted. "Do I know you?"

"He's the fake Jenkins, Babe," Kate nudged her hand under his again as recognition flooded Castle's features. He held her hand tightly.

Jenkins sat forward and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. Burke noted his open body language as the man spoke. "Actually, the other man you met was the fake Jenkins: he's an analyst at the agency's office in Boston." He surveyed his silent cohorts. "But that's not really relevant right now," he mumbled as he sank back under Hunt's intimidating glare.

"No, I guess not," Castle grumbled. He took a deep breath into his lungs, filling them completely before slowly blowing them out. He stared at the table.

"Son, maybe…"

"Look, _you_ don't get to call me that." Castle's voice was low, almost menacing, Burke thought. He glanced at Simon, who nodded minutely. He'd heard it too and second-guessed the wisdom of the decision not to restrain a potentially violent patient.

"Okay, fine," Hunt said with an attitude of long-suffering as he held his hands up in surrender, "but I think we need to talk about what's been done to you and how we can fix it…together. I promise you that there is no one at the table who doesn't want to help."

"You'll excuse me if I don't take you at your word," Castle sneered. Beckett squeezed his bicep where she'd threaded her arm through his again. She was normally not a very tactile person. She could sit with him without wanting to hold hands all the time. Castle required that more than she did, being the very physical person he was. He took pride in his coaching her in the joys of tacts. She groaned the first time he'd made that pun.

"Okay," Beckett said quietly, pulling herself closer to him, her hand snaking down his forearm until it nested in his palm again. "We've established that, with few exceptions, we don't trust each other. The question is how do we overcome that to help Castle?"

Burke glanced at Simon, who had a spooked look on his face. He thought that maybe the people in the room needed a moderator, and he didn't believe he or Simon was qualified.

They all sat wordlessly, each trying to formulate how to proceed or maybe just measuring, assessing. The silence oppressed Castle like a weight until he could no longer stand it. He exhaled and flatly stated, "I want to know it all."

Burke raised his eyebrow. It took him a millisecond to be certain that Castle had spoken. "All what, Rick?" he asked quietly, as if he and Castle were the only two in the room.

Castle ran a hand through his hair. "I want to know what happened those two months," he whispered, holding back the desperation Burke knew lurked within him from his plea, but it was in his eyes. "Where I was, what I did…even if it's bad."

"Bad?" Jenkins scoffed as he shook his head. "It wasn't…" he glanced nervously at the scowling, unusually taciturn Hunt. He seemed to gather himself and his courage, and continued defiantly, although Burke could see the man's apprehension, he also saw his equal determination, as if telling the story was the relief of a burden.

"You helped to save many people: thousands. Your selflessness helped to foil an attack we'd heard chatter about, but were not in a position to impinge without your influence." He looked down at the table. "We're unable to stop the attacks on too many occasions, but after we secured you…"

Castle scoffed, "Kidnapped me."

"Okay…" Jenkins conceded as he held his hands up, his wrists still sitting on the polished table.

Castle continued, practically without inflection, "Ran me off the road, crashed my car…"

"Richard," Hunt interrupted with plenty of inflection.

Glaring at his father, Castle couldn't believe that he was using a paternal authoritative tone with him. He'd had to use that familiar tone of voice with Alexis on very few occasions. When applied to him, it made him want to rebel: to not be directed or deterred, especially by his absentee father, so he rolled his eyes and continued, "Dragged my unconscious body…"

"Rick…"

"Away from you," he sharply turned to the woman at his side who'd spoken. "You Kate, and our wedding." He shook his head and closed his eyes. He opened them again to her, seeking her. "There's not anything that anyone could have said to me to convince me to walk away from you."

"I know that, Babe: I know, but if it was so many people."

"And kept me away from you for two months," he finished quietly, "stolen, Kate: that time was stolen."

Rita, who seemed to be the calming voice of the group, tentatively patted Rick's hand. "In all fairness, they," she nodded at Jenkins and Hunt, "had you for three weeks," her eyes hardened, "and then lost you after the flight back to L.A. But then Hayley here tracked you down."

Hayley smiled kindly as both, Rick and Kate's eyes sought her. "After I found you, you had to be hospitalized: you'd lost a lot of blood. I took you to a secure facility: an agency controlled facility."

At Kate's look of alarm, Hunt filled in, "He got himself shot doing something, being somewhere without backup, without…" Hunt turned his gaze away from the scrutiny of his son's. "Fucking sacrifices for nothing. It could have all been for nothing," he raised his voice.

"Jack," Rita calmed him with just her tone. Burke could see there was more to their relationship than that of just co-workers. He also read the gruffness and anger in the older man's voice and raised an eyebrow: he'd been scared.

"Why me?" He shook his head. "I'm not convinced that this is all true," he circled his hand above the tabletop, "but why me?" He stood and started prowling the conference room. "As the women in my life point out frequently," he began, shooting a look at Beckett and placing his hand against his chest, "I'm not a cop, I'm not trained, and I'm not an agent of some unnamed, unknown _lettered_ agency…"

"Uh…" Jenkins interrupted and dropped his gaze back to his clasped fingers resting on the table.

"Jesus Christ," Hunt sighed after a protracted silence.

"What does that mean?" Burke and Beckett spoke out at the same time.

Castle held up his index finger to both of them and turned to Hunt. He remained silent until Hunt dragged his gaze back to his son's condemnatory expression.

"Fucking sacrifices," Hunt repeated, shaking his head and curiously, Rita patted his forearm. Castle narrowed his eyes at the familiar display, but filed that question for later.

"Hunt?"

"Damn it!" He groused and Castle thought he looked desperately for an out. "Jenkins, he's yours. You debrief him."

"Jack?" Jenkins eyebrows rose almost comically.

"We already have the room dampened…just…oh fuck it: just do it. I don't see any other way."

Jenkins surveyed and considered each of the people sitting at the table. Two doctors, a detective, a freelancer, whatever Rita's unnamed agency called their reps, and three spies. He focused on Castle who had resumed his seat.

He inhaled and began, "Twenty-seven years ago, you were recruited as a field agent for the CIA. You underwent training and received your credentials. Your cover, because of your up and coming success in the field, was an author. You could gain access where others could not. You were highly successful and seemed to take to the work like it was in your genes, which, although we didn't know at the time, it was." He side nodded to Hunt. "I was assigned as your partner right after Langley. I stayed behind the scenes handling the surveillance and set-ups, and you were…well, for lack of a better descriptor, like an American James Bond." He smiled wistfully. "You were good: really good. You were a player, a playboy author who partied and moved in all the right circles: knew all the right people in the name of research." He'd made air quotes as he said research. "Your cover was your regular life. "

Castle listened quietly as the man across the table told the story of a life that could have been any one of a hundred characters in his books. Maybe Derrick Storm hadn't been completely fictional. "Why don't I remember any of that?"

"We'll get to that," Hunt barked. He kept his eyes focused on his hands in front of him. Castle startled at the sound of his father's growl. So mesmerized in the story, he'd nearly forgotten that there were other people in the room.

Jenkins looked at Hunt who gave him a small nod. "Twenty- _one_ years ago, you requested to resign."

"Wait what? Why?"

Kate squeezed his hand and gasped, "Alexis." She had never seen a more dedicated father than Castle. It made sense that he'd give up James Bond for Alexis.

"Yes," Hunt filled in. "You met Meredith at a party and began a…" he sighed, "…a fling, got her pregnant and suddenly found scruples and a moral compass," he finished in a disgusted tone of voice.

"Jack," Rita admonished. Jack rolled his eyes and sighed, but kept his loathing of the situation to himself.

"You negotiated for a desk job," Jenkins huffed while shaking his head, "a fucking analyst, but the company wouldn't hear of it." Rick scowled and Jenkins explained, "You were good, remember? The best," he added sadly. He inhaled and he continued the report. "You resigned, but before you left, you underwent selective erasure protocol." Castle scowled and Jenkins quickly added, "At your own request. You had only completed six years of missions and training, and because of your cover's high profile; you were given the option to keep your cover identity."

"You wanted to keep Alexis safe, Rick," Hayley spoke up for the first time. "You gave it all up for her. I've always admired your dedication to your girl."

"The procedure was a success. Your tradecraft memories were erased and replaced with non-identifiable false memories. They're vague and attributable to the type of lifestyle you were supposedly living at the time: drugs, sex, and rock and roll."

Castle narrowed his eyes at Hunt. "You knew about this? We met after forty years of wondering who the hell you were and you didn't set the record straight?"

"I couldn't and you wouldn't have believed me anyway."

"You don't know what I would have believed. You chose to walk away," he stormily accused.

"No son, you chose. You chose Alexis over everything."

Burke, who had been mentally taking notes, shifted in his seat. "Rick, we've worked this through before."

"We worked it through without him sitting here," he hotly contended and jutted his chin in Hunt's direction. "Yes, Dad," he derided the title. "I put _my_ child first." After a moment of quiet seething he turned to Burke and snorted, "Maybe I'm not over my abandonment issues." He stood again, needing to move, to work off the excess nerves and growing irascibility. "Maybe we don't know who the hell I really am or what issues I really have." He prowled around the table. "Maybe since I _developed_ a conscience," he jeered, "Maybe I'm a fucking sociopath who's been fucking lobotomized," he yelled. He breathed heavily for a few seconds, while wildly searching the room. "I have to get out of here." He moved to the door, quickly threw the lock before any of them could react and stormed into the anteroom. They heard the door to Simon's outer office slam against the wall.

"Jesus: that could have gone better," Rita said as she closed her eyes.

"This is why you never tell them," Hunt stood and gestured to the still open door. Jenkins stood as well, momentarily frozen, unsure of what he should do. He dragged his hand down his face. "Once they've been wiped, it's done. You don't revisit," he said to the doctors. "Follow him, Jenkins. Don't approach unless he's compromised or compromising."

"I'm going too," Shipton asserted and she followed Jenkins out the door, not waiting for permission, but receiving a nod from Rita.

Kate watched them go and was confused as to what she should do. She felt it was important to give him space, but he'd basically been told, they all had, that parts of his life was as much of a fabrication as the stories he wrote.

She looked to Burke for guidance and he shook his head. "I know you want to, but give him some time to process," he said, "He'll be all right." He pointedly looked at Rita and then Hunt. "They are just keeping an eye on him, right?" Rita smiled, understandingly and Hunt grunted. She sat down, but kept her eyes on the doorway.

Simon spoke up for the first time, clearing his disused throat first. "This is…reprehensible. Is this something you do all the time or just in certain cases? How long has the CIA been doing this type of procedure?" He shook his head. "The likelihood of error is astounding. How could you dither in a man's brain? How could you be so callous?"

Hunt grinned, but it wasn't pleasant: he had the look of a feral cat. "National security," he grunted.

"National…"

Rita raised her hand and quickly explained, "The procedure is usually safe and it makes it easier for the former agent to move on with their lives and for their handler to check in on them periodically without fear of alerting the protectee."

Hunt shook his head. "Or anyone who, shall we say, wants the asset to be unable to remember his or her former career permanently." His tone deadly smooth; serious, lethal. "The problem with Richard is that whatever he stuck his nose in after the mission in Thailand, when," he paused and rolled his eyes, "he shook Jenkins, the idiot," he paused and the gruff expression he'd worn since entering the room was replaced with one almost resembling pride for a second and then it was gone. "Whoever caught up with him, well they're the ones who botched the procedure. Not us. Matter of fact," he turned cold, blue-gray eyes on Kate Beckett. "We're pretty sure he was reconnoitering something having to do with you."

* * *

He needed air. He needed anywhere but that conference room. He needed quiet to think and process, and…holy shit, how could he possibly process this? He stopped running at the end of a white, indistinct corridor, doubled-over, almost as if in pain.

"Rick?"

He looked past his hip back down the corridor and the man who said he had been his partner approached. "Stay away. God, I just need a minute," he cried.

Jenkins stopped twenty feet from him. Waving off a nurse and an orderly he turned to them and stumbled through an explanation, "It's okay…uh…he just received some…ah, bad news." He dug in his pocket and flipped some sort of identification for the nurse's approval, which e apparently received.

Hayley watched as Jenkins closed the distance between himself and Rick, someone, who was essentially a wounded person and more likely to strike out if startled. Castle was six years her senior, but had been someone she watched, learned from, and admired from a distance her entire adult life. She turned left at the first intersection, hoping to block his path.

Castle dove away from his pursuer through the swinging doors of the kitchen. It was darkened and, thankfully, deserted. He sank onto a stainless steel stool at a prep table near the center of the room. He idly picked up a gleaming knife and absently began cutting grooves into the cutting board there and let himself replay the information he'd been given, trying to make it fit within what he thought was his life. They were right about one thing: the time-period after Kyra to Meredith's pregnancy was seriously hazy. He really had no clear memories of it, just vague recollections. He'd always assumed that he got drunk or high while watching Kyra's train depart and didn't truly sober up until Meredith was pregnant.

How he ever produced six books during that time had always puzzled and astounded him. Granted, they weren't his best works, but they exemplified the most productive work period of his life, a standard that he'd tried to duplicate many times, but always unsuccessfully, since.

He dropped the knife and his gaze, contemplating the ceramic flooring tile patterns under his feet as he reflected on everything that had been asserted when he heard it: not heard it exactly: there really was no sound, more accurately a presence: it raised his awareness. A feeling of being watched, observed. Maybe he'd had the skill at one time to discern the feeling as credible or false. He decided he would listen to his gut.

Careful not to give himself or his awareness away, he casually fingered and then lifted the first weapon he could reach and adjusted his grip.

* * *

"Me?" Kate squawked incredulously. "What does Castle's disappearance have to do with me?"

"Ms. Beckett," Hunt began in a long-suffering tone with an equally long exhalation of breath. Kate pursed her lips. "My son was an excellent agent at one time. He gave that up, fine. We all make decisions, some to stay some to go, some for personal reasons, and some for the greater good."

Kate got the distinct feeling that he wasn't just speaking in broad general terms to make a point. She studied him, not that she thought she could discern truth, but maybe a glimmer of feeling or motivation.

' _He looks…tired. No, not tired: sad,'_ she thought.

"He could have left Alexis to her mother, but he chose not to. I was disappointed, but what are kids if they don't disappoint you, right?"

He paused, but Kate knew the question was rhetorical: a pathetic attempt at humor. Apparently Rick had inherited the talent to lighten the mood from his mother. She had never trusted Jackson Hunt. She was grateful he'd helped in Paris, but he wouldn't win any father of the year award nominations from her. His decisions had hurt Castle. Despite Castle's repeated assertions that Jackson Hunt didn't matter, he did. Castle was an intelligent man and knew what he had missed without a father. He'd experienced a completeness he had never known when he discovered Hunt in Paris, even if it was only for a millisecond; he knew what he had been missing. He'd confessed as much to Kate and to Burke. And then when Hunt had coldly, heartlessly used him for a case, his callousness had caused all of Castle's deep-seated insecurities to bubble to the surface. It had taken a great deal of work and perseverance for him to rise above the ever-present abandonment uncertainties he'd always had, but had buried with each subsequent rejection. There was a long list: Kyra, Meredith, his mother, to a point; Kate herself had left him to his insecurities the summer after she'd been shot. Something she worked every day to erase. But it all began with the man calling himself Jackson Hunt.

"My point is that he left the life and was safe until you came along: you and your issues and your history; all that fucking baggage."

"Jack," Rita said softly. He glanced at her and rolled his eyes. "Kate," she began kindly, "we believe that Rick discovered a connection, a previously unknown thread in your mother's case."

"But, that's done. I arrested Bracken…"

"Bracken is a tool," Hunt scoffed. "Sure you arrested him, and he gave the kill order…" Kate flinched. "But he wasn't calling the shots."

* * *

"Rick?"

His head whipped up and he blinked deliberately. He supposed it had been naïve to think he could escape, completely. He had been contemplating all that had been stated and said that morning while absently creating familiar or abstract shapes and faces in the patterns of the ceramic tiled kitchen floor. How the hell he could be a freaking spy? How could he not know? Have some kind of clue? How could he ever trust what he knew, absolutely knew in his heart and mind, to be true. Ever.

"Look, I'd really rather be alone right now," he said to the woman who'd followed him, his hands raised in surrender or, considering the knife he wielded, protection.

Hayley stopped advancing on him. Even if she didn't think Rick Castle could effectively employ the weapon, the Agent Castle she knew could and wouldn't hesitate to incapacitate her. She cleared her throat and carefully adopted a friendly tenor. "I know you don't know me, but I know you. I've been assigned as one of your handlers for ages."

"I thought that was Jenkins."

"It is. I mean it's both of us. Obviously, one of us can't watch you twenty-four, seven. We kind of keep our ear to the ground, listen to chatter: you know?"

"I don't. I don't think I know anything anymore." His breath beat a staccato rhythm on his inhale. "And the only things I am certain of keep disappearing."

"I know you have nothing to go on, but we only have your best interests at heart." He scoffed. "No really, Rick. There is no one in that room that doesn't care for you in one capacity or another."

"Really? How about Hunt?" Shaking his head as he chuckled darkly, he said, "Since you've been observing me, which by the way is a disturbing thought on its own, but since you have, you know how he used me the last time he blew into town." He started to run his hand over his face but stopped, having witnessed Hunt make the same gesture. "No. I am nothing but an opportunity to him, maybe a mistake: an object to be used. Nothing more."

"You really don't…"

"And your partner?" he drawled, "Rita? I've never," he began but thought better of it. "To the best of my recollection, I've never met her before." He sighed heavily and laid the knife down.

Hayley took that as an invitation and contemplated him as she sat down on the stool next to his. Castle briefly followed her with his eyes, but let them drop to the tiles again. He blew out a stale breath he'd apparently been holding. Stagnant air billowed in the space between them, easing the tension in his chest. Despite everything: the turmoil and revelation, he felt, if not exactly calm, but safe in her presence.

"It's all relative," she began. "It's the job: you protect your charge to the best of your ability, even with your own life, if it comes down to that."

He tilted his head toward her so he was looking at her sideways. "Really," he grunted, much like his father, Hayley noted. He rolled his eyes and redirected his gaze to the food pyramid poster on the opposite wall. In the darkness, the smiling broccoli and squash creeped him out. "You would put yourself between a shooter and me."

Hayley inhaled and reached out and toughed his side, his scar, exactly the place that he'd been shot while he had been missing. He flinched and looked at her. She lifted her own shirt, revealing a similar wound.

"I was with you when you got that. I pushed you out of the way, almost," her eyes flicked to the site of his scar. "But you pushed your way back, luckily for me, and you pushed me out of the way before the second volley."

Lifting his eyebrow, he commented, "Almost."

She grinned and spinning on the stool, knocked her shoulder into his. "Yes, almost." The smile dropped from her face. "My point is that any one of us would save your life, Rick. You're one of us."

"But, I'm not. I'm not one of you right now. I don't have any recollection of any of this." He sighed heavily. "Hell, I don't know if I can tell what's real anymore."

"Start with the basics."

"Basics?" he repeated.

"Yeah: your mum, Alexis, who is beautiful, by the way." She nudged him again.

"You know my daughter?"

"Relax. You can't really observe you without observing her as well, at least some of the time. She's just a part of your dossier."

"Dossier? I have a dossier?"

"Yeah," she smiled, amused, "as an asset you do. You'd have one just by virtue of your status as a former agent. Some private citizens do as well if they've caught the attention of the searchlights. Beckett has a dossier."

"Beckett…oh, because of Bracken."

"That and…um…other particulars."

She delayed silently, staring at the tiles. Castle stood suddenly and his stool tipped out from under him. Concerned he turned to her. "What other particulars?"

Hayley jumped. His voice rose and Hayley felt for sure that Jenkins, who had entered the kitchen directly after she did, would let his presence be known. A chuckle, tinged with a blush of melancholy quietly escaped her throat: there was a time that _Agent_ Castle would have heard the not so silent man as well as she did.

Castle narrowed his eyes. He stood before her, balanced on the balls of his feet, his fists planted at his hips, exuding formidability. "Why the hell else would the government need a file on Beckett?"

She saw the agent she'd once known in his cold eyes. _'Be careful what you wish for,'_ she mused, ironically.

"Because," she mollified. He began to pace a short circuit between the stools and the industrial freezer labeled, 'Food Only.' Hayley kept her voice calm and even. He didn't know the tricks of the tradecraft, right at this moment, anyway. "She's engaged to you and you are protected," she said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Well, protected, as long as you don't give us the slip and go running off on your own."

Castle stared at her and Hayley knew he was profiling. He's always had a natural talent. It made him a valuable agent, asset, investigator with the NYPD, and novelist. He stooped to right the stool before sitting next to her again. "What happened while I was missing?" He made finger quotes as he spoke.

Hayley inhaled, deeply. "I wish I could answer you."

"But you know, right?" He looked at her sideways and nudged her shoulder.

Hayley grinned, but shook her head. "Probably less than you and your wild imagination can conjure, I'd wager."

* * *

"You mean there are others?" Kate sank back into her chair just as the realization sank into her. It wasn't over with Bracken's conviction: that sense of closure she'd achieved ripped open, flayed just as surely as the hole in her heart.

"Of course there are." Hunt conceded. "You didn't really think that this was merely relegated to your mother, did you?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "Jesus Christ!"

Rita intervened. "Kate, we've discovered a vast network: drugs, money laundering, trafficking. You name a heinous practice and this organization seems to be involved somehow."

"Jesus, Rita…" Hunt gestured toward the silent psychiatrists at the end of the table.

She shifted her gaze to Hunt who stood and walked to the doctors. "I'm sorry but you know how it goes. If we tell you then we'd have to kill you." Neither Burke nor Simon could say for certain if the man had been joking. They gathered their notes and stood. Burke, grim faced, sent a look of apology to Kate, who nodded. "Gentlemen?" Hunt urged and then ushered them to the door.

Rita waited until Hunt had resumed his seat. "Jack has tracked down a good portion of the players, underlings mostly, like Bracken, but there's a group that's insulated themselves very well. We think Richard followed a thread," she chuckled and shook her head, "he does like to pick at threads."

Kate looked up from the tabletop and shook her head. "How?"

Hunt grunted and Rita raised an eyebrow. "How what, Dear?"

"How do you seem to know him so well?"

"I told you… that we are all on the same task force," she said gently and Hunt watched her incredulously, unable to understand where Rita found her patience. Kate nodded. "Well, this hasn't just happened, either. The investigation into the organization at the heart of Operation Terraqueous has been ongoing for over thirty years. With the exception of Hunt and myself, we were on the original task force; everyone else was recruited to the team over the years…Richard included."

Kate contemplated that information. "So, Castle has known about the organization that ordered my mother's death for years?"

"Remember, Kate. He knew about them two decades ago. He walked away, wiped his memory, before he knew you or of your mother."

"But if he was on the task force wouldn't he have heard about her murder?"

"Your mother was murdered after Richard left the company," Rita reminded her.

"Besides," Hunt interjected, "She was one person. These people have literally wiped out whole communities. Your mother was just a thorn in Bracken's side."

Kate resolved not to cry in front of these people. She would not accept the nameless, faceless description he'd just given of her mother's murder. Coonan's dismissive accounting, 'It wasn't personal, okay? She was just another job,' kept replaying in her head.

Hunt's voice jarred her back to the present. "When he was required back to service, he was…reminded of who he truly is and what he had been trained to do," he added.

She raised her chin defiantly. "It almost sounds as if you're glad of that."

"It's what I hoped he would choose as a permanent vocation." Hunt explained casually. "Haven't you ever wondered how a soft-in-the-middle writer kept up with you and your NYPD training all these years?"

Truly, she had thought about it and questioned his skill set from time to time, but Castle had always alluded to his research. That he'd had acquired more than writing inspiration during his wide-ranging shadowing history. Along with many other questions, she'd never asked him directly.

"I…" Hunt rolled his eyes. "I just never asked him. I've wondered if it was from the research he'd done for his novels."

Hunt shook his head, clearly not a fan of Kate Beckett's. Rita tried for a reassuring smile. "The question today is how do we reverse the damage done him by that organization. Frankly, I'm shocked he's still alive."

"Shocked and wary," Hunt added.

Rita, noticing Kate's expression added, "We don't know what kind of suggestions or orders may have been implanted."

Kate lifted both fists and pressed them into her eye sockets. She wasn't sure how many more revelations she could take. She just wanted to take him home and build their life together: the one they'd dreamed of while staring at the ceiling from the safety of their bed.

She sighed and dropped her fists to the table. "What was the plan before?"

"Before Richard screwed it up?"

"I don't think it was Rick if he questioned your presence," she defended, hotly. She really tired of Jackson Hunt's derisive attitude.

Hunt chewed on the inside of his lip. "You're right," he conceded. "The plan was for Rita and Hayley to gain custody of Richard under guise of doctors who would take him to their facility where in reality, he would be remanded to company doctors, where he would undergo a typical retrieval protocol, and if necessary, surgery to restore him, if that's even possible."

Kate felt her face flush at the coldness of his own father as he coldly described what he had planned regarding is son's brain. "You are some kind of son of a bitch," she accused while staring into his eyes.

"Yeah, you're probably right, but until you understand the sacrifices I've made for this country, why don't you just keep your self-righteous attitude to yourself."

The door opened and Rick entered followed by Hayley, Burke, Delozier, and Jenkins at the rear. He quickly assessed the scene. Beckett and Hunt glared at each other.

"Looks like you're ingratiating yourself, Dad."

"Richard…"

Castle held up a hand. "Just…just save it. I've been thinking and I've decided that there is no way in hell that I'm going to make a decision to monkey around with my brain, not knowing exactly what the consequences are. So, no surgery…"

"Aw, Jesus…" came from Hunt.

"Rick, the ANN is real and you will continue to have episodes," Burke cautioned.

"I appreciate that, but I think I need to live with all of this new information and all of its implications before I can submit to surgery." He walked to where Kate was seated and took her hand. "It's going to be roughest on you. I can go away until I figure it out."

"Oh god: no! No, Castle." She held their clutched hands to her face, turned her head and kissed the back of his hand. "I couldn't stand it if you disappeared again. We will get through this together."

He smiled and leaned down to kiss her. He straightened, but still held Kate's hand tightly in his. "So that's settled," he declared. "Carter, Dr. Delozier: thank you for everything. You've set us on the right path." He turned his body toward the four operatives. "Thank you also, for this enlightening information." His expression hardened as his eyes swept over his father. "I understand that I and my family are monitored. You'll know when I've made my decision." He held Kate's hand as she rose and he escorted her out of the room.

* * *

Kate opened her eyes to the soft autumn light filtering through the blinds. She felt warm, cozy and at ease despite the chill in the air outside the windows. The past month had been harrowing, but this morning, with her fiancé at her side and talk of spies, vast conspiracies, invasive surgeries, not to mention their separation while he'd been at the clinic, behind them for now, she reveled in the release.

She hummed a bit as she leaned over his still sleeping form. She should have let him sleep. His brain had had too much to work out, too many decisions, the weight of which he had labored under since returning from the clinic last week.

"Babe?" she whispered as she nuzzled his cheek. "Rick, come on Sweetheart." She let her fingertips caress his strong and sure jawline. As she gazed at him, the constant worry he'd carried with him was nowhere to be found, she was struck again at how beautiful a men he was, and not just his looks, but his personality and heart. It took her breath away to think she'd almost lost him.

She lifted herself so she could kiss him awake.

He hummed a deep rumble emanating from somewhere deep in his chest that since she'd discovered he made that noise understood why Meredith had given him the nickname, Kitten. "Hmm, morning," he slurred.

"Hey, sleepy." He opened his eyes. "You want some coffee?"

He exhaled. Slumber held tightly onto Rick Castle, like he was a precious and exquisite jewel.

"Rick?"

He sat up and swallowed as he looked around the bedroom. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he discovered he was naked and drew the sheet around him.

"Babe, are you okay?"

His eyes found the equally naked woman who held a silky robe in her hand. She swung it onto her arms and tugged the belt securely.

She sat next to him on the bed and laid her head on his upper arm. Her fingers slid along the silky sheet draped over his thigh.

"Um…" he cleared his throat. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but," he caught her wandering hand and stilled her fingers in his grasp. A cold fear grasped Kate's heart. He swallowed, his wide-eyes searching her face and asked, "Who are you?"

* * *

 _So guess what? I will once again be participating in the Castle Fan Fic Authors' Stream Con. For those of you who missed the first one this past summer, it's a live streamed, fun filled opportunity to chat with your favorite Castle Fan Fic authors. There are 32 of us participating this time around over two weekends, October 14th-16th and 21st-23rd. I'll be back on the web with my pal, Perspex13 and we've also coerced Aalon to join us this time. Send me a PM if you'd like more information._

 _Take care,_

 _GM_


	7. Interim

_A/N – Hello Lovelies!_

 _Welcome back to this tale. My heartfelt appreciation goes to all the readers and reviewers, both signed in and guests. Watching the readership numbers and reading your feedback is an unexpected joy I've found since I began writing on this site. Thanks for the boost!_

 _A special shout out to Perspex13 who calmed my own personal angst about the amount of angst in this chapter. Thanks Bud! If you haven't done so already, please check out his stories. Awesome writing!_

 _Thanks, so much, for reading and if you like it let me know, if you don't let me know. I read and answer every review. (Life's been a little hectic, so I'm behind in my answers, but I figured reviewers would rather have me write the next chapter. Priorities. )_

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Blank Page**

 **Chapter 7**

 **Interim**

Her life had become about numbers. Just like the 'accident free' signs at many factories: seventeen days without incident, interspersed by ten that had 'gone' episodes, three in which he didn't create any new memories of his 'gone' time. Burke had called it anterograde amnesia when that happened and postulated that it could be attributed to the ANN implanted during his disappearance.

Back to the numbers: copious trips to the library to research brain surgery and memory manipulation, to Burke's for therapy and crisis intervention, and many meetings with Hayley, his new best friend. If Kate were honest with herself, she'd have admitted to a bit of jealousy for the Brit. Hayley had a fondness for Castle that was evident in the way she interacted with him and the mutual trust they'd established in such a short time. He said he trusted her more than Jenkins, Rita, or - and especially, Hunt. Granting that Hunt, through Hayley, had provided him with evidence, although limited and highly redacted, it was still evidence of his time in the CIA. A few of his competency assessments, weapons and HTH proficiency scores, and sparse mission reports were delivered in plain envelopes marked, 'classified' in red block letters.

He showed them to Kate who, despite herself, was impressed. He truly had been a rising star with the agency, his future laid out before him and, just as Hunt had said, he gave it all up. There was video evidence to back that up, in which Castle gave his name and rank, his service ID, the latter of which had been mechanically garbled. Castle really wanted to know if he had a cool ID like double oh seven and had been disappointed to learn that that information had been redacted. The video ended with him looking directly into the camera, describing what was about to happen to him, and why he had chosen the surgery. The reasons were all about his daughter, his need to provide for her and not be absent or worse. Hunt had explained that even in the CIA, the legal eagles had landed. The video was a CYA for all involved.

* * *

It had been a normal day…well, as normal as a day could be in the Castle household. Normal in that he retained his memories and identity, had done some more research while she had gone out for a much-needed run. She had taken a leave of absence from work, unwilling to leave him alone and reluctant to leave him in the care of Martha for very long.

Her very nearly mother-in-law was wonderful and supportive, but everything that had happened and that was coming to light was taking a toll on her as well. She had known of his prior service to the country, but had thought he had been some sort of an army liaison within the government or something. He had always been deliberately vague. She had never spoken about it because, before the procedure, he told her that his time there had caused him some hurt and grief and could raise demons from his past. She could respect keeping past hurts buried.

He never spoke of it since and as a result, she didn't either. She had mentioned, 'his time in the service,' during a book party interview a few years after Alexis had been born, during which the reporter asked him how he made Derrick's character so believable, but he flatly repudiated her statements alluding that she'd had too much to drink. Of course, it was what he believed to be truth at that point of his life and he chalked the authenticity of his writing to the hours of research and interviews he'd done.

Kate had come through the door and gotten a bottle of water after her run. Heading for the bedroom and shower beyond, she spied him sprawled over his couch in the office, watching something on the TV that held his attention so greatly that he didn't hear her approach.

" _The Bourne Identity_?" She scoffed as she identified the movie on the screen. "What's next, _Inception_?"

"Maybe," he drawled as he shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "There's also an Indie flick called _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ , but I may just go with _Memento_ , _The Manchurian Candidate,_ or _Total Recall_."

"Babe, you know who you are and you are not Jason Bourne."

He became quiet and introspective as he often did when an offhand comment or remark would have him questioning his identity and his past. He didn't know what he may have done in the past and he'd confessed during a session with Burke that that terrified him. The files confirmed his association with the CIA: but not what his role had been. He was Jason Bourne, kind of. Castle had even joked that he'd been found on a bullet-riddled boat and that maybe Robert Ludlum took the answers he needed with him to the grave.

Kate knew from her brief stint with the AG that lettered agencies didn't need to redact file clerks' or any technician's records or that the many innocuous positions did not rise to the rank of SAC for any mission and according to his file, Castle had. He had brooded about what he may have done and what he didn't know, for nearly a month. When he remembered anything at all, that was.

* * *

It had been a rough morning; he'd awoken 'gone' and unusually rancorous, uncooperative and surly. Lashing out and aggressive instead of utterly bewildered and alone, scared and reticent, until his life and his identity swept over him. Followed quickly by the sucking undertow of their life together, tossing him mercilessly into the depths of his guilt and remorse. Just after noon, he'd reached for his lifeboat. She laid her hand over his and he released the bottle. Instead she held him, as he sobbed, "I can't," repeatedly.

On top of that, he had described vivid dreams. He had had them previously and felt positive that they were memories, but Kate and Burke had assured him that they were most likely products of his own imagination. He'd argued that they weren't. He was in the dreams, like a main character: he viewed it like the plot of one of his books come to life, but he'd felt the percussive kickback of the rifle against his shoulder, he'd smelled the gunpowder; he'd recognized the assassinated man as his assignment. After he searched for him on the internet to find that his assassination was still unsolved, he'd thrown up.

Kate quietly privately asked Hayley to give her whatever evidence Hunt sent his way from then on.

* * *

"I have an idea," Rick said as he made his way across the living area to the coffee pot.

Kate and his mother released matching breaths, furtively squeezing each other's hand, rejoicing in the fact that it would be a good day. She arranged her face, letting her thankfulness slide and her love of him shine. "What's that?"

He turned from the coffee pot, leaned, and stretched over the counter to kiss Kate good morning. "I'm going to make a video," he said as he settled onto his elbows on the countertop in front of them, the warmth of the steam from his coffee acting as a mind clearing inhalant.

"Oh Darling, I don't think you were cut out for the movies," Martha stated, while trying her best to unobtrusively assess her son. She knew she failed when he affixed the false smile in place, so afraid to distress her or any of them any more than he already had. "Good morning, by the way…"

"Good morning, Mother," he returned as he stretched to kiss her cheek, regretful that he hadn't bothered to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. He settled back over his mug, a knowing, amused smile on his face. "Why am I not suited for the movies?" Her precipitous assumption wasn't anywhere nearby his ballpark, but didn't want to miss hearing her reasoning.

"Well you remember that fiasco that Nikki…" she let the rest of her observation drift, just like the cracked and split wood that drifted to shore after a storm. She expelled a forceful breath, while Kate held hers. "I'm sorry, Darling…I…"

"For what?" he asked, knowingly, while taking a bite of a cantaloupe chunk stolen from Kate's plate, "That was a disaster, if I remember correctly."

"Castle…"

"But I wasn't speaking of film, Mother." He glossed over his mother's faux pas and Kate's budding sympathy purposefully, forcefully. "I'm going to make a video and keep a journal to reintroduce…well - me, for when I'm 'gone.'"

"Like _Fifty First Dates_ ," Kate supplied. They had watched the movie a couple of weeks past when he was watching and reading any fiction that had to do with memory loss to balance all the non-fiction research he conducted.

"Yeah, kind of…except that when I'm gone—it's all of it. I don't get a certain amount of backlog in knowing my name, age, occupation; family like Drew Barrymore did in the movie. It's blank. All of it."

Kate watched him as he spoke about his life or lack of knowledge about his life as if it was just another plot device. Her gaze slid to Martha, sitting next to her, who had gone still. The brave mask slipped off her face for a moment and a shudder escaped her lips involuntarily. She noticed that Kate had been watching and tried to reinsert the façade, but Castle's hand encompassed Martha's, not Kate's.

"I'm sorry, Mother." He held onto her hand as he walked around the short end of the breakfast bar. He gathered her into his arms. "I am so sorry," he whispered into the orange curls on top of her head. He closed his eyes unable or unwilling to reveal the guilt he knew blossomed in his eyes to Kate, who had taken to watching him, always on constant alert. He sighed, making the fine wisps of her hair flutter.

He felt his mother inhale, straighten up, and push him away. The diva was firmly back in control. "Now, what kind of video did you want to make, and do you need a director?"

* * *

It turned out that he didn't need a director, but, ironically, the writing had proven to be difficult.

Castle sat in front of his laptop, as he had done for many hours, both the day before and the bulk of that the current day, staring at the curser: a thin line blinking a metronomic and hypnotic rhythm, disdainful of his solution and indifferent to his struggle. Conciliation. Com-pro-mise: the curser was beating and bleating at him out faster than a second hand on a clock, but too slow to miss its harbinger.

"Babe," she said softly.

He allowed his eyes to rise, refocus, and find her, looking soft with her hair pulled back in a loose braid, tendrils cascading around the angles of her face, blurring the hard lines like gauze over a camera lens in an artsy flick or Vaseline smeared on the lens of a porno. She wore leggings, the older ones: the ones that felt like silk under his fingers, his fingers too rough and calloused to be anywhere near them, philistines in the palace court, but they dared as if on an ancient quest for sacred and priceless artifacts. Above that, she wore…huh, he blinked and adjusted his view. If he wasn't mistaken that looked an awful lot like something he had sworn he had given away.

"Kate? Isn't that the Scooby Doo sweatshirt you _made_ me get rid of because it was," he squinted his eyes and lifted his chin, "and I quote, 'too ripped up to actually serve as a shirt anymore,' end quote?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she huffed as she idly ran her finger across the various volumes on the bookshelves, purporting to make a selection. The soft thump-thump-thump of her finger as it hit each of the ridged spines, the only sound besides his slightly accelerated breathing.

He sat up and took a closer look. As he licked his lips anticipatorily, he panted, "Ah, I think you do."

She intentionally kept her focus on the tomes in front of her: thump-thump-thump. "You're out of your mind, Castle," she scoffed.

Neither she nor he blinked at her mention of his mental state. He'd asked her to make the jokes. He was just so tired of tiptoeing around the fragility of his condition.

"Maybe, but," he stood and within a couple of seconds was standing directly behind her. "I recognize that rip…" he poked his finger through the hole just below her ribcage and she tingled at is touch. "I also seem to recall this tear," he whispered as he nuzzled the jagged material apart, revealing her neck, also soft and, it turned out, extremely kissable especially since the ratty shirt no longer smelled like him, but like her: of cherries and vanilla.

He explored all the rips and holes until he likewise, deemed the sweatshirt unfit to wear and he stripped it off of her.

* * *

"Thank you for distracting me," he mumbled as his fingers traipsed along the softness of her thigh, even softer without the leggings, and rested the heel of his hand on her hip, his fingers pattering a cadence to a refrain only he heard.

"Any time," she hummed. "I don't know much about the writing process, but I don't think glaring at the screen willing words to magically appear or concentrating until you break a sweat sitting still is how it works."

"No, it's not," he agreed. "Distractions help," he added and she didn't have to look to know his eyebrow twitched.

The tapping stopped and he took to imprinting patterns on her hip and lower torso, hieroglyphs and ancient runes or language known only to him. It didn't matter what he inscribed there, it could have been grocery lists and still would have sent frissons of arousal through Kate. She adjusted her head on his shoulder so she could see him, to breathe more easily, his idle authoring making her gulp her air, but also, to gauge if he was interested in more distraction or just distracted.

He seemed oblivious, deep in thought. "How do I sum up everything I don't want to miss in a few sentences? My whole life summarized into a black and white serif to be served to a stranger." At her scowl, he shrugged and contended, "Essentially. Where could I fit in the joy, the love?"

"You do a good job with Nikki."

"You're biased. Besides it is fiction; pure imagination…" he chuckled, "lust," he rumbled, dragging out the 'L' and ending by sound and language barely kissing the 'ST,' while he increased the pressure of his ministrations to the area around her hip.

Her head reclaimed its favorite position, nestled into his chest, so he wouldn't see how his touch affected her. "It's not all fiction, Rick," she gasped his name a little too breathlessly. She bit her bottom lip and before she knew what was happening he growled and flipped them, and began to attend to the abuse she'd been perpetrating on her lip.

* * *

He sat nervously jiggling his leg. The leg jiggle in and of itself was not an indication of his nerves, he usually jiggled, touched, tasted, examined something, anything, to keep his very active mind occupied, but the jiggling on that day, in his office, was because he was nervous.

He'd finished the video. It had been delayed because of two 'gone' days. In the meanwhile, he had been able to write himself a letter and had begun keeping the journal. _'It's called a journal, Beckett,'_ he'd argued, _'Diary sounds way too teenage-girl-ish. I'd feel like I'd have to cover it in pink and trim it with purple feather boa.'_

She had shown him the missive she and Dr. Burke had devised in the beginning and it helped get the video script started. After he became comfortable with the process, he'd been more playful, at ease. At one point, he thought it would be a good idea to capture a day in the life, as it were, and strapped a Go Pro to his chest, which he dubbed the _'Castle Cam,'_ and went about a normal day, which turned out to be several days because, _'I had NO idea how boring I am, Beckett.'_ She and Alexis had tried to assure him that he was anything and everything besides boring, but their stolen grins and sniggered laughter failed to convince him.

"Beckett?" he called as he stood and stalked to the door. Search lighting their bedroom for her in his anxious scrutiny, but she had hidden in the bathroom.

She just needed a few minutes to compose herself, to get it together, because she was his anchor through all of this and if an anchor isn't solidly anchored, what good is it?

"Coming," she hollered back and closed her eyes.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat once more and blotted her face dry. She blinked and leaned toward the mirror, to double check that her eyes weren't going to rat her out. Satisfied, she turned and walked, surely, through the bedroom and into the office.

The only thing he was jiggling then was the ice in his tumbler. She sighed, "I'm here, Babe. I'm sorry I made you wait."

He turned and she could see him sweep the culpability off his face. "No, no hurry. I was just checking on you." Walking to the back of his chair, he asked – a little too casually, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah…yeah, it is."

He inhaled and exhaled. "Kate, we talked about this. This will make it easier on you and my mother."

"And Alexis."

The words punched him with a phantom-like fist. He let out a breath. He'd forgotten her, again. Not just forgetting: it was as if his daughter, his baby girl, the light of his life, his pumpkin, had never even existed: had never entered his mind. He had done it before. Kate had noticed. Luckily Alexis had not ever been present to hear him flick her out of existence or worse, simply forget her.

"And Alexis," he agreed quietly. He lifted the tumbler to his lips, his hand shaking. "Damn it," he grumbled.

"It's okay, Rick."

He rounded on her. "Okay? Jesus, Beckett: I just forgot about my daughter. How the fuck is that okay?"

In the mere seconds it took him to go off, she sheltered herself by sinking into the armchair as if she'd slinked to an cellar at the sight of a tornado. She closed her eyes and prepared to weather the storm.

He could explode like that now. His mood and self-restraint were as ready to ignite as piles of leaves on any given autumn day in any given suburban or rural neighborhood; just needing that one spark to set the fire. Burke told her that his frustration level was continually very high and that the guilt he felt was slowly but surely eroding what was left of his self-control, no matter how many sessions they'd spent assuaging it. He'd prescribed tranquilizers, but Castle had refused to take them, despite the doctor's repeated assurances, he feared that the medications would make the possibility of waking up 'gone' greater. Burke had also told her to keep a record of the times and frequency that he lost his temper, along with all the other recording Burke had requested of her since he could no longer observe his patient on a regular basis.

He slammed his glass down on the desk, erupting what little liquid remained in the heavy-bottomed tumbler like an amber lava from a volcanic fissure, caused her eyes to open and her attention back to the room. He strode to the bedroom door, abruptly stopped and inhaled. She could almost hear him counting. His head hung low over his chest, she watched as his fists expanded and contracted, as did his back with each deep breath. Lifting his head, he turned and slowly walked back to her, reminding her of a truant boy forced by a caregiver to make amends for his devilish deeds and pranks.

"I'm sorry, Kate. You…"

"Rick," she interrupted as she reached for his hand. "You have nothing to apologize for. You are dealing with giant issues, I can't even begin to imagine how all of this affects you, but I'm trying. Your pain and problems, Rick Castle, are my pain and problems. And if I could, I would gladly, cheerfully, take any and all of your burden from you, if it would ease your mind and soul."

He stared at her, not the lost man who didn't know his past, but her fiancé, the man who had been through hell and back with her, who had cheated death with her too many times. He let all the love for her weep from him, from every pore and with his whole being. He held her hand and pulled her up to him and they embraced. "I think maybe you should be the writer in the family," he murmured from the cove of her collarbone, one of his favorite places to bury his face.

She leaned back, her hands cupping his cheeks. "We'll figure this out," she promised and then gave him a reassuring smile.

"I…I know, but I hate…I hate the feeling of frustration, not—I can't…I can't keep hurting you. I can't keep forgetting her." He drew in a shuddered breath. "God, if she ever heard…"

"Oh, Babe," she whispered. "I'm…Maybe you should consider the sedatives."

He gave her a non-committal grunt as they moved to the love seat and he snatched his laptop from the desk and pulled up the file. The video began centered on his face.

"Hey," he greeted shyly, as he made final adjustments to the camera and lighting. "There we go." Kate tried to think about what this was like for him: making a video for a future version of yourself who wouldn't remember making the video. She shook her head minutely, aware that he was watching her reactions in his periphery.

The Castle on the screen continued. "Yeah, I'm you. Go check the mirror. If nothing drastic has happened, we're still ruggedly handsome." He looked down at some papers and then back up at the camera. He flicked his fingers toward the lens. "Go on: go check. I'll wait." The on screen version of himself went back to his papers, studiously ignoring the camera for a ridiculously extended few minutes. "All good? Good. So, you've, I've, had this thing done to you…um me."

He went on to describe the procedure and its consequences and the reason for the video. "I guess at this point, you're wondering all the 'Ws:' the why, when, what, where, who and wow, which is spelled: w-h-o-w…you know, for how, but with a W." He chuckled half-heartedly and mumbled the end of the sentence.

"Okay, here goes: your name is Richard Edgar Castle. You are forty-three," he paused, "stop scowling: you've needed all of that time to have made a really good life, great actually, and I know you don't feel forty-anything, but it's true. You are a best-selling novelist. Yes, you really are. The New York Times says so. The proof is all over the bookshelves and in the framed cover art in the office. Your mother, Martha, is an actress and lives here in the city." The video cut away to Martha rolling her eyes, primping her hair, Mae West style, and sticking out her tongue at the camera, before shooing him away. "You have a daughter, Alexis, who is probably the reason you are still alive, in more ways than one. She is a remarkable young woman, more mature than you have ever been to date, and she is currently a junior at Columbia." A collage of Alexis from her baby pictures to a recent one followed and then he topped it off with footage of her, as well. "Dad!" she admonished from the screen as her father held the camera shakily in one hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek, capturing it all selfie style.

A title appeared reading, "Intermission," and elevator music emanated from the computer. Kate chuckled and Castle squeezed her hand. His face filled the picture again after a few seconds. "Okay, hold on: it gets a little bumpy here." The screen then filled with pictures of his wedding portrait with Meredith. Kate breath caught in her throat. "You have been married and divorced," he showed the portrait with Gina, "twice…" he shook his head, reprovingly, "you were kind of a dick, but you seemed to have gotten your act together." The scene shifted to what he called a myriad of Kate. There were pictures from work, vacations, The Hamptons, some that she was familiar with, and some, like the shower-stalking one, not so much. "Kate Beckett is currently your fiancée. God only knows why He allowed the fates to bring you stumbling across her path, which she regularly treads in four-inch heels, but she is the best thing that has ever happened to you." Kate squeezed his hand. "She is a kick-ass, unapologetic Homicide detective with a fascinating, remarkable mind. She makes you look like an idiot and you're pretty fucking smart. As you can see," another slide show of Kate appeared, only this time the pictures were a bit more private.

"Castle," Kate protested.

"What? You are hot and this is for me, not anyone else."

The video continued, "She is so very hot and you don't deserve her. Seven years ago you started following her for research for a series of novels. You became a civilian consultant, evolved into a partner: her partner, an associate civilian homicide investigator, um, that lame title is my invention, and, for whatever reason, she lets you be a member of her team. Eventually, we fell in love. Well, that's not exactly true. Eventually she fell in love with you. You've been in love with her for most of those seven years."

The Castle on the screen paused and looked down. "We were supposed to be married last May, but you were abducted on your wedding day and were missing for two months." He inhaled and Kate could see the regret etched in his face, both on the video and the live action versions of the man sitting next to her. "You were found unconscious on a small boat on the ocean. When you woke you had no recollection of the two months you were missing. There's more. We've figured out more of the mystery, but until you remember the basics, the rest will overwhelm you."

He stood and the video cut to him on another day. "I'm going to show you around the place, maybe something will stir your memory." He toured the loft pointing out pictures and moments only witnessed through his memory, like the day that Alexis fell down the stairs, he admitted that he can't look at the stairs without seeing her at the bottom, crying with a giant lump on her forehead. The one window in the great room, all but inaccessible because of the placement of the piano, where he'd discovered Kate likes to curl up on the wide sill and have her morning coffee, watching the city as it comes alive. He stood where he always puts the Christmas tree and described the feeling he had on that first Christmas morning when Alexis could appreciate the holiday. She was three and it was the first Christmas after his first divorce was final.

Castle completed the video by donning his laser gear and strapping the camera to it, explained during a battle with Alexis that they had been playing together since she was five and then the video cut to him stealthily sneaking up on Beckett in the kitchen, complete with Bond-like spy music dubbed in, and kissing her socks off. The video abruptly ends after that.

* * *

"How many times have you seen the video now?" Burke asked as he watched the final moments of a carefully edited version on his own laptop, a bemused smile threatened his normally restrained lips.

When Burke asked a direct question about Castle's plan for dealing with the 'gone' times, Kate usually let him answer. She glanced his way and saw that Castle seemed to be lost in thought, subsequently she replied, "Four…um, four since he's finished it."

"Does it help?"

"It keeps Kate and Mother from having to go through that; having to take on that burden, so yeah: it helps," Castle, back from his ponderings, stated emphatically. "Does it bring me back any quicker or with less…upheaval…"

Kate bit her lip and watched him anxiously.

"What?" he asked, annoyed at having to pull it out of her, until he understood and then his whole demeanor changed, he slumped in the chair and bowed his head. "God damn it," came the anguished cry from behind his hands.

"What?" Burke asked, searching between the two of them.

Kate remained silent, knowing that he had wanted to broach this specific worry, she waited. Rick lifted his head, forcing his eyes to her, to her reassurance and support. Kate did her best to let her expression silently scream, _'I'm right here, I've got your back.'_

Castle sighed and looked as though he might have been sick. "Alexis," he said finally to Burke, after swallowing down the bile that had risen. "Alexis doesn't have to go through the introductions over and over again, either." He gulped a breath. "She shouldn't have to deal…she'd be better off…"

Burke noted the physiological changes: rapid, shallow breathing, his face flushed. He swallowed numerous times and repeatedly wiped his hands on his pant legs or the couch cushions.

"Rick," Kate scolded gently. She reached for his hand, but he shook her off and went to stand by the window. Both she and the doctor watched him for a few moments until she turned to Burke and explained, "He's been forgetting her."

"When he's 'gone?'"

"No," Kate answered quickly and quietly as if she was prattling on about something frivolous and Castle couldn't hear her. "Like just now: he'll mention me and his mother, but leave her out."

"I don't just leave her out: I forget she exists," he corrected as he turned from the window, squinting as his eyes readjusted to the dimmer light of the office. "I remember everything when I recover, friends, events, even things I'd rather forget, so why don't I remember the single most important person in my life?"

Burke considered him. "I have a theory."

Castle resumed his seat next to Kate on the couch and Kate lifted her head, first to Castle and then to their therapist. Castle wore his hope all over his face and she wanted to temper it, to be realistic, but at the same time give him what he needed. What he needed was something solid, some answers that wouldn't leave him second-guessing.

"That would be helpful," Castle said. He clasped his hands in front of him to hide their shaking, but Burke noticed. Kate, who had witnessed the careful assembly of his façade, was used to it.

Burke sighed inwardly. Here sat Richard Castle, his failure. He brought the man no peace, no hope, and certainly no understanding. Hell, Burke didn't understand it all himself, how could he expect to help his patient?

"I think it may be an deep-seated instinct."

"An instinct? To forget my daughter?" Rick scoffed and rolled his eyes. He slid forward on the couch, ready to resume his place at the window.

Burke held up his hands. "No…no: don't misunderstand, to protect her."

Kate and Rick exchanged glances before giving the doctor their full attention. Rick relaxed back next to her.

Burke continued. "What has been that one thing for which you have continually made some type of stipulation throughout all of this?" Castle looked at Kate. "Not Kate, even though you don't want her or your mother to have to deal with this, you believe them to be helpful, capable. No, it's Alexis." The doctor shook his head. "Rick, I don't think you're forgetting her, I think you, and subconsciously, your mind is doing what it always does, protect her: to shelter her from it. You don't want her to be involved in…" at the look of protest on his face, he held up a palm, "hear me out. Allegedly, you went to extremes when you realized you were going to become a father," Burke shook his head and exhaled; still incredulous at the lengths he supposedly underwent to protect her. "You had your life erased and remade so she would not be in danger…ever. You have kept all the details that we have learned away from her, in fact, you've given explicit instructions to everyone not to elaborate to her on anything. Your mind is eliminating that possibility."

"My…" his breath shuddered, "My own mind is eliminating my daughter?" he asked, incredulously.

Kate swung her head around, first to Castle and then to Burke for assurance. "No, Castle: that's not what he said."

"Whatever the cause, be it her protection or anything else. My mind has been eliminating Alexis to protect her." He stood and walked to the windows. "How can I protect her if I don't remember her?"

"As I said, it's a theory."

"Grasping at straws: at anything that sounds plausible. God, I'm so tired of this." Turning abruptly, he strode across the carpeted space to the door.

"Where are you going?" Kate's countenance questioned not only his departure, but also his well-being.

He turned at the open door and said, "I'll be back, I just need a break."

Carter watched him go, raised a hand, and nodded as Kate began to rise, keeping her in her seat. He waited until the door clicked shut. Now would be as good a time as any to get her to give him the observations he'd asked for.

"I feel like I'm spying on him."

"The more information, the more accurately I can assess, but if this makes you uncomfortable…"

"No, I understand – it's just. I don't think it's getting better. I don't know what else to do. I feel like I'm watching his slow descent, Dr. Burke."

He studied her, as he had wont to do. It always made Kate self-conscious and she moved to the window, curious to find out what her fiancé would see as he stood there.

"Maybe you should consider going back to work," he suggested after his scrutiny.

She frowned and moved back to the couch. "He can't be left alone." She had formally taken a leave of absence and had not been back to the twelfth since she'd brought him home from the Adler Clinic.

"I know, but Kate, being a full-time caregiver, even for a loved-one, takes a toll. You are constantly on alert, constantly watching for a misstep or foible. You need time away: regularly. I believe Rick would agree."

Kate stared at her hands as the tears rolled silently over the hills and valleys of her face, dripping onto her lap, disappearing into the fabric of her jeans, like so many unanswered fears and, ashamedly, reliefs. Yes, he'd agree: he had been trying to get her to go back to work for a few weeks, to push her away from the uncertainty and towards normalcy. It was the reason behind the video, the reason for his letters to himself, the journal. He had said it so many times; in so many ways that the worst part was the burden he was placing on his family. She had made it her mission to convince him otherwise. He could never be a burden to her.

"He would…" she agreed, "but I can't lose him again, Carter. I can't take that chance."

* * *

Rick stared out of the window at the gray and black rooftops contrasting against the bright blueness of the autumn sky. "Would…would it be possible to get it all back?" he asked but in such a tentative tone that Burke had to strain to hear him. "You now: all of it, even my _redacted_ time?"

Burke noted that he had waited for Beckett to leave before he asked that particular question. He knew he was referring to all his lost or stolen memories. "I wish I could say, Rick. If you had told me a couple of months ago that memory manipulation or erasure was a real thing, I would have filed it under your alien and zombie apocalypse theories."

He watched his patient slouch back into the chair, a glimmer of an idea that he had no answer for as was the case for so many of his questions. Burke had never felt so inadequate in his life.

"Have you given any more thought to the surgery?"

"Ya…yes," he said slowly, his eyes darted to the door through which Kate had exited.

"Hm," Burke hummed. "So: not in agreement?"

Castle chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that." He swallowed and then looked up at Burke. Desperation, bleak desperation was what Burke could see. "I can't…." He dropped his head again.

"Rick?"

"I can't keep doing this to her…to them." He cried the declaration like he was confessing his soul before damnation.

Burke's normally stoic, solid, granite-like countenance would never reveal that he held a soft spot in his heart for his patients, it was there to be sure, but as a therapist, he'd had to separate himself from his clients' troubles to be effective. Those defenses containing his own sympathy and empathy were the only thing that kept him sane enough to be helpful to the people who sought him. There was something about Rick Castle, however, which made him lower the drawbridge and invite the writer inside his own fortress. Kate had spoken about the same phenomena; how Castle had begun to break through her wall around her heart early in their association and while that was a good thing for Beckett, it could be suicide in his vocation.

The doctor inhaled as if he were trying to get himself under control. Castle sought Burke's steady, reassuring, and oft too penetrating gaze. The doctor stared back at him, revealed. Rick could see his own pain reflected across the face of the man he had come to rely upon.

"I need to take a chance on it….but without..." he gulped as he rubbed his hands, repeatedly, up and down his thighs. Burke saw that his respiration had increased and Rick had become slightly flushed. His eyes continued to make the circuit from his lap to the doctor and to the door.

"Right now," the doctor managed to direct in his customary cool, soothing tone, "You need to close your eyes and breathe like I taught you."

Rick closed his eyes, aware that he was on the verge of a panic attack. He had felt the wave of cold sweat overtaking him as if he were drowning and the inability to take in any oxygen in its cold clutches. The familiar spasms in his limbs, their inability to relax: the tingling voltage that made him clench his hands into fists, his nails biting into his palms or need to fight the urge to run and hide.

He and Kate had fought about the treatment. She was terrified that the procedure or procedures would inflict more damage upon him. He was terrified that he would inflict more damage upon her, and his mother and daughter.

Burke held a bottle of water in front of Castle, who felt as if he'd been run over by a truck.

"Thanks," he said after he gulped half of the bottle. "Jesus, I think those are getting worse."

"Yeah, I would agree."

"Why?"

Burke pursed his lips as he stared down at Castle, who, at first averted his eyes, uncomfortable under the doctor's study and then lifted them, almost defiantly. The doctor inhaled and exhaled. "You and Kate have built a catch twenty-two situation," he stated as he moved back to his chair.

"We're pretty good at that," the writer observed.

"Yes." Burke granted then pushed forward. "You want to shield your family and your family wants to help you get through this."

"They shouldn't have to…"

"Then who should, Rick?" Burke rarely interrupted his patients' thoughts, but judged that it might be time for some tough love. "You are in no position to care for yourself all the time. Rick, you have to face this, just as if you had been diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer's from natural causes, you need people around you to care when you are unable to do so. Many people. If not Kate and your family, then you should probably hire someone. I can recommend a service."

* * *

"Beckett," she answered her desk phone, swallowing the bitter pill of guilt that came with every second that ticked away while at her desk, doing her job, doing her best to distance herself from responsibilities at home.

Captain Gates had been briefed on Castle's situation, not the classified portions, which made crafting a plausible story suspect, however with Burke's technical help, they had and the crafted an embellished, nonetheless believable dementia tale. Further, with the doctor's recommendation, she had agreed to a limited schedule for her best detective, citing that some of her time and focus was better than none.

Kate copied the information on a sticky note and hung up the phone.

"How are you doing?"

Her boys stood in front of her desk, a combination of concern and eagerness to please, draped over them as if wearing their father's oversized shirts repurposed as art smocks on kindergarteners. Currently, their team was not working any active cases, just cold. Her absence had taken them off priority cases, something else she regretted, but would never tell Castle.

She inhaled. "I'm…"

"Don't even say fine."

Lifting an eyebrow, she challenged Esposito. "I'm reluctant to admit it, but Burke was right. I needed some space," she said casually, but then the words boomeranged and uppercut her in the gut. She drooped guiltily.

Ryan shook his head. He, Espo and Lanie had all volunteered to help. They knew that Castle had been diagnosed at the clinic, but with some form of dementia. They, like Gates, had been given the barest of bones. Ryan had watched his grandfather's slow slide after having been similarly diagnosed himself. It wasn't pleasant: it was hard on his grandmother and mother. He didn't have to imagine what Kate had been going through, having lived it. He knew that giving herself a respite at work, at least a part of the time, was a needed thing.

"How's Martha and Alexis?"

"Troopers….look, it's not like it happens all the time. It's not dementia, as we understand it, but sort of." She sighed and glanced at the time display on her monitor.

"And Castle?"

Beckett dropped her gaze to her desktop and swallowed. She inhaled through her nose. "Tired of it. He wants answers."

"Well yeah, of course he does," Ryan stated. "Castle's a nurturer. He takes care of his family – Jeez, just look at Alexis…"

"And his mom," Espo added, shaking his head. "I don't know if I could live with my mom again."

"Don't forget how he takes care of you," Lanie furthered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was delivering a cold file to Sanchez…yeah, _then_ I did mean to eavesdrop." The M.E. took in the small group with a practiced diagnostician's eye, culminating on Kate. "Why are you even here? Anyone can see that you want to be there, that it is killing you to watch that clock tick. Go home. Take that leave. Castle needs you and like we've already pointed out, he always helps others – it's time for some payback."

Beckett sighed, grabbed her coffee mug, and gestured for her friends to follow. Ryan skipped back to his desk, picked up his mug, and grabbed Espo's on the way back.

Beckett was at the espresso machine fixing Lanie a macchiato. They all fixed their coffees and Beckett slid onto a high stool. "I…it's not that I don't want to be there. He doesn't…"

"Did Castle tell you to come back?"

"No…no guys, it's…" She inhaled and exhaled. "He feels culpable. He's done everything he can so he can be independent."

"Can't blame a guy for that," Espo observed and held up a fist for Ryan who obliged.

"No, it's not like that. He has convinced himself that this thing is a burden to me and Martha and Alexis."

"So why are you here?" Lanie repeated.

"Our therapist said it was better for me to have some time off…"

"So, why are you here?"

Beckett frowned at her best friend. "No, time off from him, from being his caregiver," she admitted, the weight of her guilt dragging her head down just before a tear escaped the corner of her eye.

Ryan stared at the floor and Espo flattened his lips against his teeth, both feeling the weight of helplessness thrust over their backs. They spoke of Castle's devotion to his family and friends, but they were all equally culpable of caring for their little family.

* * *

"I…I uh, need help," Castle fidgeted while standing at the reception desk. Nervous that he orchestrated that everyone would be otherwise occupied. Beckett was at the precinct, his mother at a rehearsal and Alexis with friends: that he'd assured each of them that one of the other would be present with him that afternoon, was the reason for his anxiety. He knew he could blank, away from home, away from anyone who could guide him. He had his journal with him, as a last minute thought: a stopgap in case of emergency and he didn't drive himself. But he had decided that he could not be a burden to his family any longer.

Dr. Burke had spoken of outside help and he had looked into it, but because of the complicated classified nature of his affliction, he couldn't just hire a home health aide.

"To say that I was surprised to hear from you would be an understatement."

Castle looked up from the outdated copy of _Men's Health_ magazine he flipped and into the face of the devil incarnate.


	8. Omissions

_**A/N - Thank you to everyone still following this story. Thanks for the reviews and for reading. I'm glad our fandom is still going strong. I have four open stories right now and I write whichever whenever it calls. Thanks for your patience for the chapters and I hope you'll read my other stories to pass the time. ;-)**_

 _ **Please enjoy!**_

 _ **~GeekMom**_

* * *

 **Blank Page**

 **Chapter 8**

 **Omissions**

Martha Rodgers, celebrated actor and self-proclaimed Broadway diva, paused before she unlocked her son's apartment door. Breathing deeply and slowly, she steadied herself in order to walk through the door prepared. Prepared to support, embrace, and love whatever form of her son was waiting on the other side: prepared for the possibility that she would be greeted, turned away, or ignored by a stranger. Martha had endured tough times; times that tested her mettle and her heart, but none cut her as deep as when her son looked at her with no more sentiment or recognition than most people would a street person huddled in the warmth of the subway.

Katherine, when she was home, thoughtfully made sure she sent a text to Martha and Alexis to let them prepare before they came home. Since Katherine had gone back to work, she had fewer reports and early warnings as to whether he would be himself, albeit a surly version most days, or if she would find a stranger. Martha did her best in any manifestation. The three women who loved him best took turns as his caregiver. He hated the designation, but it was accurate.

After unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold, she paused. The loft was dark and quiet, save the static glow and underlying, always present hum from the many gadgets her son possessed and the appliances in the kitchen, although most of the time there was too much noise and activity, the sights and sounds of fecund, vibrant life, in the space for them to be heard.

In the stillness, Martha could feel her heartbeat increasing and strained to calm her fears. They, all three, had agreed upon a schedule to provide them all with periods of respite. Even though it killed the mother in her to admit that she needed a break from her own child, she knew it was true. Where was Alexis? She was supposed to stay until Martha could get there. It was unlike her granddaughter not to be where she was supposed to be. Martha pulled out her cell phone and checked for missed calls or texts, futilely.

She moved into the dark space, almost tiptoeing so as not disturb the atypical slumber of the ghosts of chaos, the laughter, shenanigans, and hullabaloo normally present. It was unnatural. Even if he was writing, huddled in front of a computer, the glow from the screen the only light in the space, his presence oozed a vitality as alive as any being. He'd radiated the dynamism for as long as she could remember, even in the womb she'd known he would be a force, a beacon in her life and for those around him and that light was missing.

As she trod through each markedly cold living space, she switched on the lamps and the gas fire, leaving a trail of light and warmth in her wake. She shrugged off her coat, scarf, and gloves and left them in a heap on the table behind the couch. Just to be sure, she inspected her son's office and bedroom before sending a quick text to Alexis. Surely, she and her father must have gone out on some conspiratorial outing, both of them prone to adventuring and acting as thick thieves must.

She walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but instead made a face. Some foul smelling leftover Thai food sat on the counter in its Styrofoam coffin, for whatever it had once been, it had surely died. As highly unusual as finding his kitchen anything but immaculate was, Martha shrugged it off, nothing was normal and nothing could be taken for granted. She made her tea and sat on the couch to wait, humming a tune from a show which had enjoyed success on the great white way before she ever had. The old refrain already timeworn, but beloved; when she warbled her first note a year before Richard had been born. She perused a technological journal featuring spy and stealth gadgets and pulled the throw over her shoulders, the vacuum of the space settling on her shoulders. _'Thank goodness,'_ she thought, _'not a typical death, and murder periodical that Richard fancied.'_

* * *

Castle felt a wave of cold and shakiness in his extremities grow as he gripped the edge of the cold steel exam table tightly and cocked his head, cracking his neck, trying to regain his equilibrium. He subconsciously swung his legs, his heels pounding rhythmically against the avocado green metal cabinet below, to end the initial loud silence in the office, which had been as suffocating and oppressive as the panic and uncertainty of his episodes. He clutched his bunched clothing in front of the paper exam gown Hunt had tossed to him with instructions in grunt, the man's favored means of communication.

The doubt of his actions; the clever little plans and schemes he'd perpetrated, that he'd been so sure of the past few days, melted his resolve like a popsicle in July's heat. They waited for whomever Hunt had summoned, an unknown. Castle had never felt so detached and so unsure of his choices.

Hunt. Castle watched his father who sat on the visitor's chair, leafing through a decades-old magazine. Maybe Burke was right: that he really couldn't be trusted with himself, to make competent decisions, to be left alone. After all, he'd planned to walk right into the clutches of a man he despised. It occurred to him that his thoughts regarding his father weren't peppered with words and phrases he would choose, as a writer, to describe the protagonist or even the hero's sidekick. No they were definitely associated with the antagonist, the villain of the work, the Moriarty, Sauron, or Richard the Third.

Castle shivered and took a long sip of the coffee that he had bought on the way there and eyed his father, his personal villain, again. The tragedy of this tale was that the man would most likely be his savior, as well. Like an addict, he'd needed his father, or rather, his promises of making it all better. Castle chose to ignore the traps and pitfalls that classic villains inevitably would reveal: on the outset they were good and helpful, but they provided the best twists when exposing their true colors somewhere just before the climax.

He was sure that Hunt knew he was watching him, studying, but he didn't let on. Rick hadn't exactly welcomed him with open arms at the Adler Clinic, but now, crawled back to him when he needed something from him. Castle grunted at that thought: it seemed that he was more like his father than he had anticipated. He drained the remaining dregs from the cardboard cup and crumpled it between his palms before chucking it into the waste receptacle, which was lying on its side amongst the various and aged paper littering the cracked tile.

"This wasn't the type of place I was expecting," he commented. The place might have been, at one time, a thriving medical practice, but time and its ravages took its due and left the rest to rot. The lights in the ceiling panels cast a green pall over the discolored and chipped laminate countertops. In the lobby, dust covered every surface and cobwebs decorated the corners better than Castle had ever done for his Halloween parties. The so-called exam room was a shade better preserved.

"No," his father agreed as he eyed his son's persistently thudding feet, "the places we end up usually aren't." He nodded back toward the waiting area and they both waited under the flicker of a dying fluorescent tube light. Castle sat back after he was sure Hunt was settled. Hunt rolled his eyes, but understood the mistrust his son held for him. "Like I said, I'm surprised you're here." His lips turned down. He stood and stooping, he retrieved and then pocketed the cup. Castle raised an eyebrow. "DNA, fingerprints," he explained with a shake of his head. "Where's your…partner?"

"Beckett?"

Hunt's whole face expressed his distaste, not just his lips. "Yeah, that would be the one. After Jenkins, you didn't have a partner while still pursuing your true career, just handlers." He sunk back to his seat.

It was Castle's turn to roll his eyes and refused to defend a decision he didn't even remember. "Hayley drove me here," he confessed: the words tumbling out of his mouth without permission. "I'm not supposed to…I can still drive," he contended, "but if I blank, I might panic to suddenly find myself behind the wheel." He dropped his gaze down, suddenly ashamed to appear anything but strong and competent in this man's presence. "It's the responsible thing to do," he continued, "to have Hayley drive me."

The only response he received was Hunt's pursed lips and sigh.

Hitting her cue in a way that would make his mother proud, Hayley swung open and walked through the door from reception, pausing only briefly after her sharp knock.

Hunt raised an eyebrow and, Castle noticed, took a defensive stance between her and the table. "What the hell?" Hunt grunted.

Castle scrambled to make sure he remained modest in his immodest exam gown.

"Sorry, I'm late: I needed to find a place to park, since you don't validate," she snidely shot at Hunt.

Hunt narrowed his eyes. "Why are you here? In here?"

"I brought him."

He'd turned his smoldering gaze on his son. "You said she dropped you off."

"I said she drove me. I…if there's one thing I've learned in the past few months, it's that I can't count on…well, me." Castle leaned forward, conspiratorially, as if there were others in the place who could overhear. He took a breath, smelling the faint pine of the decades old disinfectant. "I want to know what you can do for me, but…" The buzz of the lights overhead ignited his waning resolve and he pulled himself up – sitting straighter and summoning his courage – he declared, "I need someone I can trust."

Hunt considered them. He wanted to be angry; not many people could get him to assume facts not in evidence. Richard had been a master, back in the day and had apparently retained the skill. His annoyance warred with his pride as he narrowed his eyes at both of them, but then shook his head, and chuckled.

* * *

Martha raised her head expectantly from her magazine and second cup of tea when she heard the keys in the lock. The door opened and Kate backed in, trailing a bouquet of helium balloons.

"Katherine? What are you doing home, dear?"

"Oh…Martha," she cried, confusion clouding her features. "I, uh…I thought Alexis was going to be here this afternoon."

"Yes, that's what I understood as well and I was to relieve her an hour ago, so I've been here waiting for them to come home."

She eyed the office. "Rick's not here?"

"No and neither of them have sent any message as to why. Now, why are you home so early?"

"I tried Martha, I really tried to stay away, but I couldn't concentrate. I was no good to the precinct."

"I understand completely, Dear." The lock turned and the worry on her face lifted. "Oh thank goodness: there they are now," she brightly proclaimed, but her voice drifted to stunned silence as her granddaughter entered and closed the door. "Alexis?"

"Oh! Hey Grams, hey Kate," she said as she hung up her coat. She approached them on the couch and collapsed tiredly into the armchair. She turned and frowned at the closed door where both women's attention seemed to be focused. "What's up?"

Martha locked eyes with Kate and then turned back to Alexis. "Dear…where is your father?"

* * *

"Where is Jenkins?"

"I – "

"I was asking her," Hunt gruffly corrected. Castle's mouth snapped shut almost comically as he scowled.

Hayley leaned against the counter. She checked her watch. "I don't know. I haven't heard from him in a fortnight."

"It's okay. I don't like him anyway," Castle added helpfully.

"Based on what?" Hunt scoffed. "The fifteen minutes you remember of him?"

Castle made a face. He never expected compassion from his father, but, he was surprised to discover that coming from him, the jibe hurt. "I don't trust him. It's a feeling." He began folding his clothing on his lap.

"But you trust her?" He nodded toward Hayley.

He compulsively smoothed the ripples out of the tee shirt draped over his knees. "Yeah…I can't explain it, but there's a connection." He dropped his shirt back to his lap while he and Hayley bumped knuckles.

Hunt chuckled, "More than you know."

Castle frowned. "What does that – "

"Jack!" Hayley interrupted his explanation and inserted herself between Castle and his father, taking the folded clothes away from Castle, before he folded them for the fourth time.

"Look," Castle said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm having a hard enough time trusting that anyone will tell me everything I need to know without their own agenda getting in the way. Please just…just don't keep secrets. Besides, I probably won't remember anything anyway. I'm the best secret keeper in history."

"You'll remember everything soon enough, Kid," Hunt grunted as he disappeared behind his magazine again.

Hayley gave Castle a closed-lip smile and patted his upper arm sympathetically. Castle sighed, but short of waterboarding, he didn't think he'd get any more out of Hunt regarding Hayley. He wasn't sure waterboarding would work, either.

* * *

"Well, he's here…with you, Gram," Alexis said as she stretched to see inside her father's office.

"No, he said that he would be with you this afternoon," Martha replied surely.

Alexis frowned. "He called me this morning, early, and said that your class had been cancelled, so I could stay for my study group this afternoon."

Kate shook her head, a murky picture beginning to coalesce in her head. "Your dad told me that you would be home before he woke up when I left for the precinct. I had to be in early for a meeting with the captain." She started for the office.

"I've already searched, Katherine." She reached for her empty teacup. "Well, it's obvious that he played us against each other, but for what reason." The annoyance on Martha's face was quickly replaced by fear. "Oh Katherine, what if he…"

She already had her phone in her hand and had pressed his number.

* * *

Castle's phone buzzed on the counter next to the pile of his neatly folded clothing.

"Hmm," Hunt said as he peered at the device. "Beckett. No doubt she's checking on your whereabouts."

"Rick, you told me that your family knew."

Hunt scoffed, "He's usually smothered by his family: confusing issues which should be clear. Do you think they would have let him come here by himself or just with you?"

Castle silenced and returned the phone to the counter top, next to his clothes, silently sending a plea for forgiveness.

* * *

Kate huffed as she listened to the beginning of his voicemail message. "He's not answering," she said, unnecessarily. She picked up her phone again and dialed Ryan, who picked up immediately. "Hey Ryan, could you…quietly…trace Castle's phone?"

"Um…yeah. Hang on." He came back after she heard a number of key clicks on his computer. "What's up? Is he missing? Did he…um…did he forget…um, blank and wander away? Jeez, Beckett, do you need us to…"

"Ryan, it's okay, but thanks. No, I don't think he's blanked. He just went out."

"If you're sure," Ryan hedged.

"Yeah, but thanks: just a mix-up of our schedules, I think."

Martha raised an eyebrow. This wasn't a mix-up. This had been deliberate. Richard had intentionally misdirected them all. She knew her son and had a pretty good idea of where he could be found or at the least, with whom.

"Got it, Beckett. Jeez, Oh man."

"What?" Kate smiled at Martha and Alexis, whose eyes riveted on her in alarm.

"He's in Newark," Ryan reported.

Kate spun away from them. "Newark," she repeated. "New Jersey?"

"Yeah. Sending it to your phone. Wait. Huh, that's funny."

"What?"

"Just lost the signal, like its battery died or it's been turned off."

"Thanks Ryan," Kate sighed. She heard Esposito's hushed whispers near his partner's phone.

"Yeah…okay: I will. Hey Beckett? He's our family too. Let us know what we can do."

She nodded and distractedly said, "Thanks," and ended the call.

"Well," Martha broke the silence. "I think we all know what he's doing?"

"What?" Alexis asked, her voice small, tentative.

"He…" she paused and cocked her head toward Beckett who nodded. Martha inhaled and exhaled. "Your father has found a way that may reverse the damage done to him."

"Well…okay," she searched one woman's face and then swung her scrutiny to the other's. "Why hasn't he done it yet? Is that what he's doing now? Why would he have to sneak away to do it?"

"Your grandmother and I thought that the risks were too great," Beckett admitted. "It's a surgical procedure."

Alexis sat forward. "Surgery? Risks? Why am I just hearing about this now?"

"Your father wanted to protect you, Alexis," Kate placated as she squeezed the young woman's knee. "You know how he is. He feels that you'd think less of him, as ridiculous as that is."

Alexis opened her mouth, but shut it as she sank back down to her chair. "Is it because he didn't remember me?"

Kate met Martha's worried gaze. They both knew that he had been forgetting Alexis, but neither were aware that she knew. They both knew his forgetting her was probably his greatest catalyst for taking action.

"Whatever do you mean, Sweetheart?" Martha asked

"Last week, when I was here with him, he was gone after a nap."

Kate nodded encouragingly. Martha stood and walked behind the chair and placed her hands on Alexis' shoulders. "Oh my dear…"

"It's okay Grams," the girl assured from under her curtain of red locks. She squeezed her grandmother's hand on her shoulder. "He came out of it or back pretty fast, or faster than normal, but he didn't recognize me. He didn't even need his notebook or video, at first. He talked about you both, his writing, he verified his whole life, most of it anyway…but then he asked if I was a home health aide and then..." she inhaled to steady her shaking voice. "Then he asked me my name." She looked up. "It was okay, because I don't think he remembered…uh not…not remembering me."

Martha circled around the chair and held her hands out. She pulled Alexis up into an embrace. "You know you are the most important person in your father's life, right?"

Alexis, who seemed to have lost several years in her grandmother's embrace, nodded. "Yeah, Grams, I know, but it's hard when he looks at me without…"

"Without recognition," Kate finished. "It kills him, Alexis. This is my fault." She shook her head.

Martha scowled. "What is?"

"I…I didn't want him to get the surgery. I thought it was too dangerous. I can't lose him again." She stood and headed toward the closet. "I'm going to go find him."

* * *

Hunt shook his head and retrieved Castle's phone.

"Um…that's…"

Without acknowledging him, he opened the case and removed the battery. He pocketed it and tossed the phone back onto the pile of clothing.

The door opened again and a man walked in holding an iPad. He was about Hunt's age, fit and just as warm and cuddly.

"Jesus. Are these scans for real?"

Castle blinked as he studied the newcomer as well as Hunt and Hayley's reactions. They knew him, he concluded.

"Walters," Hunt grunted in way of greeting.

"I was surprised to hear from you. I figured you'd be dead by now."

"Asshole," Hunt responded. He stood. "This is – "

"Agent Rodgers," the man blew out a whistle and shook his head as he stared at Rick.

"Former agent," Hunt interjected.

"I thought he was dead, too. At least that's what the official record states, or at least that he had, apparently, fallen off the face of the earth. I'd assumed Wit Sec. After the scrub, I was told he'd been assassinated. Fucking company." The man shook his head as he slid his thumb across the iPad. "Nice work. Close to his original, but with enough differences to make anyone second-guess his identity. Of course, he's aged considerably, too."

Rick scowled. "Hey!" He tried to peer onto the screen to see to what the man was comparing him. "What…who…"

"What the former agent is trying to ask is who you are and," he paused and glanced at his son. "He doesn't remember wanting or having A. M. surgery or you or your role in his history for that matter."

Rick's scowl deepened. "A. M?"

"Appearance Modification," the man explained.

"What?" His frown became deeper still and he fingered his face. "You're telling me that I've had cosmetic surgery?"

The man sighed as he tilted his head, assessing Rick with eyes that seemed to see right through him, better than an x-ray. "Jesus."

* * *

"This is not your fault. And what will you do when you get there?" Martha asked. "Contrary to what he would have you believe, he is an adult; a successful adult, at that. I'm sure he has weighed the pros and cons."

"I know that Martha, I know he's smart. I know it kills him: what this does. But, I'm afraid that he won't be told everything he needs to be told. I'm afraid that he's not using those smarts, but reacting to his emotions. That his being there by himself will give Hunt the opportunity to change what he obviously feels was a wrong decis –"

"Hunt? You mean my grandfather? That Hunt?"

Beckett closed her eyes. She had unintentionally but stupidly betrayed his one wish: to keep Alexis unaware of his past. She looked to Martha for help and guidance.

Martha's face blanched. "We'll all go together," she announced and gathered her things, effectively stalling the questions she saw poised on her granddaughter's lips.

After they had hurriedly piled into Rick's car, Alexis again asked, "Did you mean Hunt, as in my grandfather?"

Martha looked across to Kate who concentrated on getting them out of the garage and on the road. She raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Yes: your grandfather," she confirmed.

Alexis' mind spun. Her grandfather was CIA. "What's going on and why haven't I heard about Jackson Hunt's involvement before now? How many more secrets have you all been keeping from me?"

"Alexis – " Kate sought her eyes in the mirror.

"No, Kate," she said as she slid forward on the leather seat. "I'm an adult and I should know what is happening to my own father."

"Oh Kiddo," Martha turned to meet her granddaughter's gaze over the seat back. "Your father loves you so much."

"I know, Grams. That's not the point."

"Oh, but it is. He has, like any good parent, sacrificed for you. Even to an extent that I was not aware before recently."

"What kind of sacrifices?"

Martha and Kate exchanged glances. Kate shrugged and checked the time on her father's watch and studiously watched the road. She could almost feel him slipping through her fingers, as the miles seemed to crawl.

"Well there's no easy way…" she silently implored Kate for help. How was she to tell her granddaughter that her father, who valued honesty and open communication with his daughter, who balked at sugar coating and storytelling when it came to preparing his child for life, how could she explain that he had essentially been lying to her, her entire life?

Kate picked it up. "Your father is experiencing side effects from a procedure that was done to him during his disappearance."

"A procedure?"

"A surgery of some sort."

"Again, why am I just finding out about this now?"

"He didn't want you to know. He swore us to secrecy."

"He didn't even tell me," Martha offered.

"What? Why?"

Kate found her in the mirror. "What he wants, above anything else, Alexis, is to protect you."

"Protect me. Protect me from what? He's a writer."

Martha swiveled in her seat to face Alexis. "There is so much more to him than his career, Darling." She paused for a breath and then began to explain her son's history, a history she herself had only fully understood recently.

* * *

"Well, agents, let's not waste any more time," he said more to Hunt, Castle noted gleefully. The man moved to the examination table's side. Suddenly, almost as if he'd pulled it from thin air, he had a stethoscope in his ears.

"Hang on," Rick protested. He looked at Hayley rather than his father. "Who the hell is this?"

"I'm sorry Ducks. I thought you'd already been introduced, re-introduction uced, at some point. This is Dr. Walters. He – "

"He performed the original wipe, when you wanted to leave the agency," Hunt barked. "Son of a bitch ruined everything.

"Just doing what I'm told…Or did." He held out his hand to Castle. "I'm Otis Walters. I also worked for the company, back in the day. Hunt is right: I, under orders, performed your memory wipe." He stuck his hands in his pockets and took a respectable step back, his bedside manner a rung above Hunt's.

"I…I guess you did a good job. I don't remember anything from then, although I've seen evidence that it all happened."

"Hm," Walters hummed, as he assessed Rick. "I have a question."

"What?" Both Castle and Hunt answered simultaneously. Castle huffed, but Hunt grunted at each other.

"Right. I just want to know why you're…um…undressed Mr. Castle."

"I…" His eyes tracked helplessly from Hunt to Hayley and back again. Only one of them had the decency to blush.

"And everyone says I don't have a sense of humor," Hunt sniggered. Castle scowled and reached for his clothes.

Walters continued, but with more of a smirk. "It's unusual for me to see patients more than twice at the most. Most, although only a few have ever needed to take drastic measures, but of those, most go into Wit Sec. You're an interesting case. Too bad not many people can know about it."

"I think that was the point."

"Yeah, but now you want it back?"

"No…I mean, yes. I – "

"He's been tampered with," Hunt supplied.

"Tampered?"

"Yeah. In a nutshell, abducted, but that's the company's culpability and stupidity."

Walters listened attentively. "They brought him back?" he asked incredulously. Hunt nodded. "Restored." He nodded again. "Wiped…wait, wiped for a second time?"

Hunt inhaled and swallowed. "No: not by us," he shook his head. "He went off-grid; missing. That's his fault." He hooked a thumb at Rick. "He got himself taken by the bad guys, tampered with and wiped and now can't remember shit, but only sometimes, like he's got faulty connections."

"Jesus," Walters grumbled as he folded his arms over his chest. "If I were to guess, I'd say it sounds like an ANN. There's a fucking reason that even the company doesn't condone their use." He snapped his fingers. "I wonder why they didn't just kill him."

"Yeah, I've wondered that too," Hunt granted.

"I can hear you. I'm sitting right here," Rick said from the chair, bent over while tying his shoelaces.

"Probably repeatedly dosed him with some derivative from the Borrachero tree," Walters mused. "Makes them compliant, useful."

"Borrachero? I know that," Castle searched his mind as he squinted. "Oh," he pointed at the doctor excitedly, rising halfway out of the chair. "Scopolamine. We had a case; um they called it the zombie drug. A guy committed a murder ordered by the guy who dosed him. He had no memory of doing it." The inferences and parallels to his own history struck him and he shrank back down on the chair. Hayley gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze.

"That was probably a street version. The company has been using the drug, a more refined version, for years. It was abandoned…probably, because of its side effects. You were most likely dosed with a form of scopolamine and some benzodiazepine like Diazepam or Chlordiazepoxide. Maybe even Flunitrazepam."

Castle's eyes grew wider. "The date-rape drug."

"I'm just speculating based on what brief information Hunt has given me about your episodes. The benzodiazepines are what is most likely causing your anterograde amnesia and dissociation."

"But that happened months ago, why am I still having the episodes?"

"Because you're still being dosed," Hunt huffed, shaking his head. "Damn it."

"Still?"

Walters tilted his head, observing Castle. "None of those drugs stays in your system; you metabolize them and they pass through your system, like any other. Even with the ANN we've seen on the scans, you'd need regular doses to experience what you've been experiencing. Not a lot or you might have markedly different reactions, but definitely. I'd stake my career on it." He snapped his fingers. "That would explain the randomness of the episodes, as well."

"How…I mean, I've had blood tests. Why didn't the drugs show up? How did it happen while I was at the clinic? God, no one knew I was there."

" _We_ knew you were at the clinic," Hunt pointed out. "I'm betting that whoever did this to you, knew you were there, too."

"Both types of drugs metabolize fairly quickly. It's possible they missed it. If they were given to you with masking agents, it wouldn't matter how many drug tests you've had. I'm assuming you were tested at a civilian lab?" Castle nodded. "Or it is also possible that you were drug free when the tests were administered," Walters hypothesized. "Just lucky timing."

"But why? It just confuses everything. Why would they still need…?"

Walters bit the inside of his lip, staring at Castle. Shaking his head, he looked at Hunt and said, "They must have him under some sort of alpha surveillance…someone he knows…"

"Twenty-four, seven, in your face; most wanted," Hunt growled. "Who the hell? Who would have that kind of pull?"

"More importantly," Hayley entered their conversation, "Why?"

Castle swallowed dryly. Someone close to him had been dosing him? Why? Who? He was in over his head: the deep end. He felt the panic rising, threatening to wash over him. His shortness of breath and sweaty palms were the first give-away. He tried to count, tried to breathe just like Burke had shown him, but he felt the sensation intensify, threatening to swamp him. Helpless, he felt himself surrender the fight and let himself sink under the unforgiving blackness.

* * *

Kate parked the Buick on a street in a warehouse district of Newark New Jersey, a block or so away from the address Ryan had given her. She gripped the wheel tightly before forcing her fingers to let it go. She turned to her companions, who, she assessed, were already exhausted from their emotionally charged conversation during the drive to Newark. She inhaled and stated, "I need you two to stay here – "

"What? No way," Alexis protested.

Martha had opened her mouth to object, but closed it again. After a moment of thought she held up her hand to her balking granddaughter and said, "Katherine is right, but that notwithstanding, we hadn't really thought this through. You need…oh what does Richard say?"

Just at that time, someone knocked on the back passenger side window. Beckett drew her gun, causing Martha to gasp, but kept it by her thigh.

Alexis yelped and then sighed, "Oh my God," relieved, as she identified Ryan and Esposito outside of the car. She unlocked the back doors and both detectives slid onto the seats next to her.

* * *

He woke up and blinked. The stench of disinfectant stung his nostrils. He took in the disrepair of the room, and the apparent concern slender woman sitting in a chair by the table.

"Rick," a voice said, followed by a relieved exhalation.

He stopped his examination of his surroundings to look for the owner of the voice.

A woman's voice. She had gone to the door. "Hunt, he's back."

She turned back to him and smiled. "I have never seen anyone get quite that white. Are you okay?"

He swallowed and took in his surroundings again, a doctor's or hospital's exam room maybe. He must be sick. He sure as hell felt sick.

"Am I sick?" he asked. He assumed she was the nurse.

The nurse narrowed her eyes. "Do you know who I am, love?"

He frowned. How could he know her?

Hayley had heard him describe the episodes, had studied everything on him that she had been allowed to access, but had never been present during one. The blankness in his gaze alarmed her, but the complete lack of everything she identified as Rick Castle was absent and that was an entire other level of terrifying. She immediately gained a whole new amount of respect for Kate Beckett.

"No. I don't know you…I don't know…Am I supposed…What's going on? Was I in an accident? I can't remember anything."

Hunt burst through the door with Walters on his heels. "Jeez, Kid. I've never seen a grown man faint before."

"Hunt," Hayley's sharp tone stopped him dead. "He's having an episode."

"Really?" Walters asked, almost too gleefully.

"Back off, Walters." Hunt stood between Castle and the doctor.

"But this may mean that I was wrong."

"Yeah, I got that. Or that someone got to him sometime earlier today."

He liked the older, grizzled man who protected him. "Do I know you?"

"Hayley, give him his book," he said over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Walters who was eyeing his son like a lion eyes an antelope.

* * *

"What are you two doing here?" Beckett groused from the front seat.

"It's perfect, Katherine," Martha hummed. "You don't want us to go with you, but you need back off."

"Back up," both Ryan and Espo corrected together.

"Yes, that."

Alexis, who had been fuming after being told that she could not go look for her father, sat up. "Did _they_ know too?"

"Know what?"

"Yeah,' Ryan asserted.

"That my father was a part of the CIA at one time, but gave it up and had his memories erased when I was born?"

Martha and Kate both had attempted to interrupt her during the girl's vehemently fueled discourse before she revealed too much information.

"Whoa, CIA? Beckett?"

Kate sighed. Normally, she'd try to chalk Alexis' short but revealing rant up to the infamous Castle imaginings, but not when she sat in the car, and not when it happened to be the truth.

* * *

Jackson Hunt experienced a crisis of conscience perhaps twice in his life.

He had always been sure of what he wanted, the dedication he'd needed to get what he wanted, and what he needed to do to get there. His entire life was plotted and planned: the path laid out like a landing strip at a commercial airport. There had never been deviation or second-guessing and he would tell anyone who asked that he held no regrets. Only he knew the latter to be false.

He'd always done the right thing, or as right as the current political climate or orders defined. Regardless, he'd always been justified in his actions. He'd sacrificed his own personal wants and needs in deference to the company, the country. He'd surrendered his pursuit of happiness so that others could do so freely.

The happiest he'd ever been had been was when Richard came of age and after his initial success with his first book, hired a private investigator who had very little to go on and more luck than any human deserved, and found him. They'd begun a tentative relationship and eventually grew close enough to recruit his own son into the service.

Richard had proven himself a natural: he excelled in training and possessed an intuitive talent for espionage. In his blood, as it were. Jack had never been happier or more proud until it disappeared in a night of passion and carelessness.

They'd had a fight. Richard wanted to connect and intertwine the disparate strings of his life, the loose ends of his separate relationships with his mother and father, his true identity versus his cover identity. He had no problem lying to a despot or terrorist or even an informant to accomplish the job; he'd been brutally focused to complete an objective, but incessantly lying to his mother ate him alive.

Jack had called him immature: a self-centered jackass, and in danger of both, insubordination and quite possibly treason. After many volleys of incendiary words between them, Jack, fueled by his frustration, exploded at the younger man who in defense, punched him. Richard accused him of being a manipulating bastard of both his career and his life and left. Jack, who still sported the crooked nose from the scuffle, hadn't ever reported the fight.

Rick disappeared for several days. Jack didn't search. He knew his son was good at concealment, one of the best. When he'd returned to their field office, he picked up his orders and headed out to Monaco without any familial acknowledgement toward Hunt at all. He barely even looked at him, except for the mission briefing and then it was only a stone-faced acknowledgement of the operation plan and objective. Richard had always remained professional before, indeed most of the people who worked with them did not know of their relationship, but he'd usually find ways to express what couldn't be acknowledged in the open. He had, in his typical teasing sense of humor and much to Jack's mock disgust, termed it 'covert affection.' His kid could be annoying, but Jack's couldn't deny the growing fondness he held for his son.

When Richard had returned from the op, well, the op and the hospital, he'd debriefed him. He answered all the questions and reported the intelligence he'd gathered, but when Jack asked him if they could talk, Richard asked if he was dismissed. He had disappeared again. Returning quicker than Jack had anticipated; he learned he had made an appointment to speak with Jack's superior, SAC Drew Jordan.

Jordan informed Jack of Richard's reassignment and, after several weeks of radio silence between them, he'd learned of Richard's subsequent resignation. That had been the first time he'd second-guessed himself.

Richard's out-processing several months later went forward without either of them communicating with the other, until the day of his procedure; Jack had gained access to the facility and had finally talked with his son.

Rick's mind was already made up. He was going to have a child and he, unlike his father, placed more value in his child than in the company, he'd tactlessly indicted. Later, he venomously said he was glad that he wouldn't remember him afterwards or anything about his service. Jack deflected those barbs and claimed that he was merely mourning the loss of an exemplary agent. Both men knew how to spot a liar.

Jack had stormed out of the room before saying anything further. That had been his second incident of second-guessing. When he'd finally cooled off and returned, the procedure had been completed. Richard was well on his way to being reprogrammed to drop back into his former life, which would now be complete with a fiancée and future child.

The first time his conscience piped up, it accused him of denying the country of a top-notch operative; that he had been responsible, somehow for Richard's decisions. He and a bottle of bourbon convinced the meddling conscience that it was wrong.

Annoyingly, the noisy little bugger decided to remind him of its presence for the second time that day. The nagging thought was that Richard would be better off not knowing everything about his past, about their history. Regardless if that past included their prior association and would permit his desire to rekindle a relationship with his son. That aspect couldn't possibly have been what had been causing the racket.

He frowned as he thumbed his cell.

Even before he heard a ring, he heard her voice. "Tougher than you thought, huh?"

"It's aggravating that you're right all the time, you know?"

"Stop frowning. It's not all the time, just when you disagree with me."

"He wants to know it all."

"You knew he would, Jack. He's always been curious. He needs the whole story: it's what drives him."

After a mostly silent pause, save for his sighs, she continued, "You really don't have anything to lose."

"I have everything – "

"No, you don't. My dear husband, I love you...in my own way, but Richard…"

"Yeah, I know. Either he hates me for what he knows of me from now or he hates me because of what he learns about from before."

"You need to distance yourself, Jack."

"I can't turn my back again"

"I'm not asking you to, but you need your objectivity. Until we know exactly who did this and why, he's still in danger."

Jack closed his eyes and inhaled, letting it all go in a great gush of breath: cleansing breath. "You're right, of course. What did you find out?"

Rita smiled and began her report.

* * *

"Well, I have to say that this explains some things," Ryan contemplatively said as he brought up the rear. He may have looked casual, like a third wheel to a couple out for a walk, but he kept his eyes and ears open. They weren't on their own turf and had no idea what they were walking in to, but as long as one of their own could possibly be in harm's way, they'd go.

Esposito glanced over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"Castle."

"The Cap once asked him if he had any cop in his family tree."

"Yeah, I remember. Castle said that they were mostly con artists and circus folk," Esposito chuckled.

"And mind readers," Beckett added.

"So CIA agent. I guess that counts as cop."

"Yeah," Kate breathed.

"Beckett, that's the address, across the street," Ryan cocked his head to the dingy, scummy windows of a closed-down storefront doctor's office.

* * *

"So, I'm a novelist?"

Hayley started at the sound of his voice. He'd been reading and flipping back and forth through the pages of the journal, comparing his handwriting, scrutinizing the pictures, holding the book aloft to compare a picture of Hayley to the woman in the exam room with him.

"Yeah, you are."

"What is our relationship? It's not clear in here." He held the closed book up to her.

"We're, um…friends."

"But not good friends," he intoned, his gaze intense, reading her as he'd always had a penchant to do.

She swallowed. "Why do you think that?"

He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "'Um…friends'" he repeated. "Good friends aren't hesitant."

Hayley sighed. He was correct. They weren't good friends, although she had always wanted to be. When she was younger, her father would tell of his exploits, his successes, and daring heroics. She never wanted to be anything except an agent, just like him, just like her dad.

She, like Rick had been born out of a transitory night of romance and passion. The major difference was that she knew her dad from a young age. Her mother had figured out how to contact him and he visited her as often as he could, he always brought exciting tales and exotic souvenirs from unheard of locales with him. When she was around fourteen, he'd started telling stories of a younger man he worked with, who like the best of the super-spies, always got his man. She'd have fantasies of a suave, debonair, handsome man, who regularly saved the world: her own personal version of James Bond or Derrick Storm. She knew exactly what she would be when she grew up.

"You're right," she agreed. "We haven't really known each other for very long, but we get along well. I hope to deepen our friendship."

"Oh…okay." He'd gotten very pale and closed his eyes. She noticed he had gripped the edge of the table.

"Rick? Are you alright."

"Oh, oh God…Kate. Where's…? I…you…you brought me here. Hunt! I was shot!" He lifted his shirt to examine the scar. "Where's Kate?"

Hunt re-entered the room and leaned against the doorjamb. Hayley shook her head, warning him not to interfere.

"Okay, now calm…control your breathing." She grasped his shoulder. "That's it. Good."

"I have…I was taken. My brain. I was drugged?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're with me all the time, now. How do I know you're not the one drugging me?"

Hunt took a step forward and said, "Because she would rather die than harm you."

"Why? I don't even know her that well."

Hunt rolled his eyes. "I wonder sometimes if they didn't make you dumber when they did whatever they did to your brain."

Castle blankly stared at his father. "I don't…"

"She's your sister, well, your half-sister."

"Oh God, Hunt!"

"What? When did…?"

"I'm sorry, Rick. You weren't supposed to know," she angrily tossed the latter toward Hunt.

"Well now he does. I can't have him suspecting and accusing you when you've adored him your whole life. Richard, meet Hayley, your baby sister. Now that the family reunion is over, we have to go."

* * *

"Detective Beckett!"

Kate turned as she fingered her gun. Espo and Ryan weren't so subtle. Each had drawn at the sound of the man's call. No one knew they were there. No one else knew Ryan had pinged Castle's cell.

"It's okay, guys. This is – "

"Oh, hey – Jenkins?" Ryan shook his finger at the elusive man.

"The fake Jenkins," Espo corrected.

Kate sighed. "He's actually Henry Jenkins." Both detectives re-holstered their guns, given Beckett's reaction to his sudden appearance.

"Yeah the other man you met was not," Jenkins explained."

Kate interrupted, "I thought you people were supposed to be watching him."

"It's not twenty-four, seven, Detective. Besides, Hayley had point today."

"So where is she?"

"No idea. I pinged Rick's cell, hoping I'd find him." Jenkins surveyed the nearby storefronts. "Do you know why he is here?"

"I think he's contacted Hunt to…" Kate stopped talking and frowned. Something wasn't quite right.

"For the surgery?" Jenkins visibly paled. "We have to find them."

As Kate spoke to Jenkins, Ryan pulled his partner over to the wall. "I don't trust him."

"Yeah," Esposito agreed. "Castle would say his Spidey senses were going off."

"What do we do?" Ryan asked as he glanced back the street to where he knew Martha and Alexis waited.

"What we always do, Bro: we have her back. We have Castle's back."

Ryan nodded and they bumped fists and wandered back to fall in behind Beckett, who began walking across the street.


	9. Interstice

A/N - I love the musical Spamalot. Rest assured, "I am not dead yet."

I know you'll probably have to refresh yourselves with this story. Just recently, this particular muse knocked on my door. I was grateful because I have missed this story. I will finish it. Not today, but I do hope you will enjoy this installment.

~GeekMom

* * *

 **Blank Page**

 **Chapter 9**

 **Interstice**

The sun hung brightly in the sky and Castle had to squint when he finally emerged from the building, hustled along by Hayley and Hunt. The doctor brought up the rear. Hunt had led them into the basement of the doctor's office and they scurried through the narrow passages under and between the buildings like rats in search of the cheese. In Newark, it was said, that the underground network was used mainly by crime families in the twenties and thirties. Other cities, like Dallas, had made an underground refuge, a city under the city, with clubs, restaurants, and shops for its residents.

He had no idea how far they'd gone, but when they surfaced he didn't recognize the area. Not that he would recognize one neighborhood from another in Newark, but the city didn't feel the same.

He wondered if he'd ever feel anything was the same. He had a whole other life, career, and…Jesus, a sister. He glanced at his newfound sibling. She was incredibly capable. He watched her take in her surroundings, ever vigilant, waiting for the next shoe to drop. As it occurred to him, was he.

They stopped abruptly and Hunt looked up and down the mostly deserted street. He looked at his watch and herded them all into a doorway of another closed storefront business. This one had been a magic shop. Rick looked through the dingy window at what was obviously homeless squat. Amongst the litter on the floor, he spotted an advertisement proudly exclaiming, "Fool your friends! Know everything! Spy on them with Secret Sam Spy Toys."

"How ironic," he muttered.

Hayley lifted an amused eyebrow once she'd spotted the object of his commentary. A sister. He still couldn't believe it.

Hunt grunted, but Castle thought he might have seen something like humor cross his face. He looked again and his father reminded him of the Old Man of the Mountain. He was just a stony, just as unyielding as the New Hampshire mountain feature he and Alexis had visited on a side trip on the way back from her first skiing trip.

A black SUV hurried toward them and stopped in front of them

"Get in," Hunt said.

"Could your ride be any more clichéd?"

"Jesus," his father muttered as he rolled his eyes and climbed into the driver's seat. The driver, a smaller guy in a black hoodie and jeans slid into the passenger side.

Haley, Castle, and Walters climbed in the back. The doors barely closed before the SUV sped off.

* * *

Beckett tried the door. It was unlocked. Just as hundreds of time previously, they entered the building in a well-practiced operation, rather like an oft-performed ballet, just silent – the only communication in the form of looks, gestures, and a decade-old mute diffusion of absolute trust and understanding. They moved independently, but as one.

The three swept through the outer office. The first thing Beckett noticed was a smell of lingering smoke. She cautiously searched but found no evidence of fire.

Esposito bent down to examine a cigarette butt mashed onto the chipped tile of the floor. "Looks recent," he whispered.

Ryan lifted a round metal trash can. "It's warm." He tilted it for his teammates. "Whatever they burned, I'm pretty sure it was in here."

"Evidence that they were here is what they burned."

The three turned sharply towards Jenkins.

"Sorry, but they're obviously gone. Jack would've had someone out front if they were still here."

Regardless, they continued to search the building. Beckett's sense of foreboding increasing with every opened door that led to another empty space.

* * *

Castle stared out the window at the passing scenery; the dregs of Newark New Jersey. Abandoned and in disrepair, the area had a grayness to it, almost as if its color and life had been drained and discarded along with its usefulness.

He sighed, rubbed his face, and peripherally noticed Walters staring at him. "What?" he demanded as he turned his head to face the odd doctor.

Walters gulped a breath. "Sorry, I was just looking at the work."

Castle clenched his jaw muscles. "The work," he repeated. "You mean...you mean my face?"

"Yes." He went about studying and staring with no more in way of explanation.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Wrong? Oh no, no. I was trying to recall why we made certain decisions."

Castle narrowed his eyes.

"I mean, take your nose, for instance."

Castle immediately reached for his nose, pinched the bridge between his thumb and forefinger. He liked his nose. It was slightly askew to his face, but he thought it gave him character. He'd often thought of it as his Hemmingway's pipe, a trademark of sorts – without the disgusting smoke or possibility of cancer.

"For instance," he echoed with a shade of annoyance.

Walters missed the tone. "Why didn't we fix your nose? It had been broken..." he squinted, "I want to say, um, earlier in your career. We did the A. M. So, why didn't we..." he let the question drift when he finally noticed the spark of anger in Castle's unbelieving gaze. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled and tried to push himself as far back as possible into the seat while sitting between Hayley and Castle. Hayley smirked and turned back to the window.

* * *

Jenkins waited while the detectives pursued their futile search. He knew Hunt and he knew Castle, moreover, he had known Castle when he was Rodgers for longer than any of them. They wouldn't be here any longer. The frustrating thing for Jenkins was that he knew they were already on the road, that Hunt, with Rita's help, would have had an exit strategy laid out. He knew exactly how long he could have stayed in the dingy office. They would have factored Beckett's response time in best and worst-case scenarios. She did surprise him when she'd left work earlier than expected. He'd sent a message to Hayley but got no response. That's when he suspected that Castle had made up his mind. He kicked the trashcan that Hunt had used to burn whatever evidence they had.

Esposito showed up in the doorway, his gun drawn, elbows locked: textbook. "What the hell, man?"

"Sorry," Jenkins had raised his hands in front of him. "I'm just frustrated. While you all look at where they've been, they're getting further away."

"Where?"

Jenkins pursed his lips. "Jesus, it could be anywhere, really. Hunt's an asshole, but he gets what he wants." Jenkins squinted his eyes as if he were looking into a bright light. "No. He wouldn't be above-board with this, he'd have to go sideways. Probably calling in favors, but not from a crowd. Just a few."

Esposito narrowed his eyes. He had a hard time pinning Jenkins down. He just couldn't decide he they should be trusting him.

"What was that?" Beckett said as she and Ryan joined them.

"Jenkins here was just demonstrating his frustration.

Jenkins shook his head and held out a palm to Beckett. "If they're going to do the surgery, they'd need a facility with the necessary equipment. Definitely a hospital. Maybe a company one, but I doubt it. Maybe civilian with a secure floor, maybe military." He shrugged. Second guessing Jackson Hunt was like second-guessing a jaguar.

Esposito exchanged glances with Ryan, who also looked as if he doubted the man's credibility.

"My point is that they're already on the road...oh hell, maybe in the air. Rodgers is a pilot."

"But he doesn't remember that yet."

"Yeah, okay, but that doesn't mean that Hunt doesn't have him on some sort of flight. If that happens we have little chance of finding them. Hunt knows how to fly under the radar, so to speak."

"So, it's hopeless?"

Ryan stepped forward. "Jenkins, you've worked with Hunt before, right?" Jenkins nodded. "What would he do?"

Jenkins laughed hollowly and shook his head, surprised to hear his own thoughts from another. "You want me to second guess Jackson Hunt?"

"Well, yeah."

"Well...he's one of the best."

"Not to toot our own horns, but so are we," Esposito bragged. He and Ryan fist-bumped.

"Jesus. If anyone gets murdered, I'll call you," Jenkins scoffed. "Hunt's one of the best operatives in the world."

"What's your best guess?" Beckett asked quietly.

Jenkins really did feel for her. Her whole world, which was a shit-fest, to begin with, had been picked up and tossed around, loosening tentative foundations and cracking things she and Castle had built. Her definition of her life had morphed in the space of mere months. He felt a bit of responsibility for that. If he hadn't lost him, in L.A., maybe he wouldn't have been taken. If he had been stronger, he would have insisted that once the mission had ended, he went back to his life as Richard Castle, but the truth of the matter was that he had missed his partner and wanted to prolong his time with Rick Rodgers as long as possible.

When Rick had informed him that they were on their final mission together, Henry had been upset. He and Rodgers had gone through Hell and back. He knew Rick had some personal issues with Hunt, but nothing other than typical clashes between a father and son. They never spoke of it, not even on the longest stake-outs. There was no water-cooler sharing in the company. A degree of circumspection of those who identified themselves as either friend or foe and constant vigilance of your surroundings including the people closest to you kept you alive. There was no such thing as over-sharing in the CIA. Vulnerability and knowledge could mean an operative's downfall. Even so, Rick Rodgers still was the closest thing he had ever had to a friend.

Pushing all the memories, guilt and hurt down, he walked toward the door. "Come on," he called to the detectives, "I have an idea."

* * *

Hunt pulled up to the gate and turned off the engine. "Everyone out," he ordered.

Castle blinked and his head followed the sign at the side of the road. "A Navy base?"

"Shut up. This is your ID," he said, looking in the rear-view mirror, as he reached over the seat and shoved an ID case into his hands. "Now, get out or they'll shoot you."

He stumbled from the vehicle as MPs approached, some with dogs, some without, followed by mid-shipmen with mirrors on sticks. "Bombs..." he whispered.

"Sir?"

Castle turned to see a guard gesturing toward the security booth. On the opposite side, a car approached. The sailor gave a smart salute as the gate soundlessly rose to permit the vehicle to exit. His eyes found Hunt who was receiving his own salute. One of two MPs were checking everyone's IDs and both Hayley, Walters and the driver in the hoodie received salutes as well.

The MP with a name tag which read Diaz, A. approached Castle. He swallowed and handed him his ID, which he hadn't even had time to look at. He had no idea who he was supposed to be, but not due to A.N.N.s or date-rape or zombie drugs, no he had no idea because his father kept things to himself.

The MP saluted Castle as well, who, without a thought, returned the gesture. He realized afterward that he must have picked that up somewhere. Checking the ID before he put it away, he discovered he was Commander Richard Jennings.

"Get back in the car, Commander," Hunt ordered.

* * *

"There are several reasons Hunt could have had him come to New Jersey: military bases, small airports, the mob, not to mention any number of contracted hospitals." He ran a hand over his beard. "Hell, he could have a contact somewhere else."

"Literally a needle in a haystack," Esposito commented.

"Not literally. If it were, we'd be looking for a needle, not Castle," Ryan corrected which earned him a scowl and a head slap.

* * *

Inside the car, Alexis kept a sharp lookout. Her grandmother did as well but masked it by reading an article on her phone. "There," Alexis pointed. "Who is that?"

"Oh, my word," Martha gasped. "He...he used to work with your father." She pursed her lips. "When I thought he was some sort of consultant for the government."

"He looks familiar," Alexis said, as she squinted.

"Have you met him before?"

"I feel like I have?" She shook her head. "Maybe at one of Dad's parties, or maybe a book launch?"

* * *

The trio reached the car where Martha and Alexis waited. "I still haven't heard a best guess, Jenkins," Kate grumbled.

"That's because I don't have one."

Kate stopped and spun directly into his chest. Jenkins barely controlled a defensive deportment and stepped back in an evasive move, instead.

He inhaled. The last thing he needed was Richard Rodgers coming down on him for body slamming his girlfriend. The thought made him pause. Rick Rodgers, Agent Rick Rodgers was coming back, apparently. He allowed himself a grain of hope that he'd get to see his friend again.

"Are you even listening?"

Jenkins refocused on the angry woman in front of him. "Sorry, sorry," he said, hands up in front of him, in surrender. He could understand why Rick – the Rick Rodgers he'd known – was attracted to the woman. "I was just trying to figure out Hunt's probable location." Kate continued to glare and with her angry partners, Jenkins figured it was a good time to part ways. "Let me make some phone calls and see if there is any chatter about Jack...or Rita...although there's never anything about Rita."

"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Esposito asked.

"Look, they could have gone in any one of a thousand directions. Let me narrow the options down. Otherwise, we'll just be spinning our wheels."

Kate didn't like it. She wanted to run right after them, find them through some mystical magic that Castle always said the universe possessed and doled out to believers, but she knew Jenkins was right. They had no clues. Hunt had left no breadcrumbs.

* * *

It was just an ordinary hospital room, ordinary décor, ordinary, but unnecessary privacy curtains, it was already a private room. He supposed it would have to be, considering the clandestine nature of what he and they were about to do. He wondered if he would remember his life, his previous life as if he were waking from a long coma. He wondered if he'd retained his previous training. In his second life, he'd surprised himself by seemingly doing something automatically in certain situations. Conceitedly, he chalked it up to natural talent. He wondered if it would be like riding a bike, his second nature unleashed and released after so many years of suppression.

He wondered if he would forget his second life. Would his years as a writer suddenly seem like cheap fiction to him he'd picked up at an airport? Half of his life reduced to some tawdry novel. Castle smiled sardonically. If so, at least the sex scenes would be pretty good.

He pushed away from the humor that seemed to be always present, even in the direst circumstances, as his life paraded by his mind's eye. His sweet girl smiled at him and his breath caught in his throat.

Would this action, an action he agonized deciding, an action Kate was against, an action he deemed, but had chosen to ignore, incredibly selfish in every possible way. Would this be the action that erased his child permanently? Alexis, the major reason behind his first life's erasure. Alexis, he repeated to himself, whom he inadvertently forgot so many times over the past few months. The guilt and fear, shrouded in his own self-centered name crawled up his throat, choking him, cutting off his air. He stopped fighting it only after a moment and blissfully let himself be drowned in the unfathomable and sunken places of his mind.

* * *

Someone had been dosing him. To Hunt the answer was obvious. There were only a few people with continuous access to Richard. A few he'd deem impossible.

Martha, the love of his life. She'd shown him a love so deep and pure, a type of love he knew he would never have experienced without her. Richard would say that the universe had clicked. Whatever the hell that meant, Hunt would scoff, but he knew. He'd felt it. She'd sacrificed everything for their son. He had sacrificed her and their son.

Alexis. To Richard the sun rose and set with Hunt's granddaughter and why not? She was beautiful, intelligent, mature and had the advantage of an entirely devoted father her entire life.

Hayley, his daughter, and Richard Rodgers' biggest fan. Hayley was Hunt's do-over, a surprise after a tryst in London. An even bigger surprise because he hadn't caught wind of the girl and showed up at her mother's several years later. Soon after, he'd regale her with stories of daring and a heroism that had Hunt rarely encountered in his decades-long career every time he had visited. He liked to pretend she had entered the service because of him, but he knew it was because of Richard. Hayley worshipped her big brother, even without ever having met him. It couldn't be Hayley.

Jenkins. Henry Jenkins had become an agent a few months earlier than Richard. He hadn't liked the man even during that time. He'd had a gut feeling about him. After they'd been partnered, Richard convinced him that any misgivings were ridiculous; that they had the perfect partnership. But to Hunt, it always seemed like Jenkins would let Richard take the risks. Maybe that was what he had meant. Richard was better suited to the field work, one could not deny, but there was always something about Jenkins that sat the wrong way. He had to admit that Richard had been right about him after he saved his life the first time. No, Hunt had never liked him, but he had always had Richard's back.

Beckett. The love of his son's life. He didn't see it. She had been reckless, obsessive, and single-minded about her mother's murder to the exclusion of everything else including Richard. Hunt couldn't fathom, beyond the obvious physical aspects, why he was so obsessed with her. The bottom line was that he didn't know Beckett or her blind devotees at the twelfth precinct. He thought it might be time to get to know his future daughter-in-law.

Hunt saluted as he cleared the gate. Richard had been sequestered and in as good of hands with Hayley as he dared leave him. He had to get back to work.

* * *

A/N2 - I wrote a little something for Castle Season 9, Moments of Always. What a privilege to have been asked and an even bigger delight to have been counted among such talented authors on that project. Read mine :-) But read the entire work, it will be worth your time.


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